Conclusions
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong - no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both? Now up, the final chapter! I hope you enjoy these alternate conclusions of episodes 1 - 5 from season two!
1. Chapter 1

Conclusions

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong – no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both?

* * *

Chapter 1: Imaginings

Athos opened his eyes wide in terror. For a moment, he did not know where he was. The room was cool – yet he was covered in sweat; his heart racing – blood roaring in his ears so loud; he thought it was him screaming.

Then, the echo of his name bounced off the walls, chasing him from dream to wakefulness – chasing him so hard that when he sat up, he could not catch his breath; his chest heaving with exertion, as if he had been running.

Athos threw his legs over the side of his pallet and forced himself to steady his breathing; slow his heart rate and calm down.

This way of waking was becoming tiresome, and all too familiar.

He looked around his room and slowly began to gather his wits. The screaming had stopped; and his name drifted away into the corners; beneath the door and out into the streets.

The hour was early, the sun had not yet emerged – and darkness still invaded his small room. He was home – everything was fine – d'Artagnan was fine. He leaned over, placed his elbows on his knees and took a shuddering breath. When was this going to end?

His dreams this past week had been disturbing; and kept him continuously on edge. When he was able to drift off into sleep – unhappy endings attached themselves to bits and pieces of the truth. He shut his eyes tight and shivered – his body finally cooling down to match the temperature in the room.

He shook his head forcibly, and swiped the remnants of sweat from his face – the dream had been a lie. They had found d'Artagnan; and he was home now – in his room – that was the truth. But in his dreams – when they come upon him in the woods; his eyes shown vacant – his body still – cold; lifeless – the King and Anne standing over him, bewildered – gazing at him, accusing him of letting this happen. The King's voice rattled around the empty space, "He's dead."

Athos covered his ears to muffle the sound; and to blot out the words.

Each night, the dream became more and more vivid – and during the day he became more and more agitated – seeking drink to calm his senses and force him to sleep. But it wasn't working.

The dream was the same every night – it was trying to tell him something – but he could not decipher it; because it was a lie. d'Artagnan had survived – he lived.

Athos pulled in another breath – stronger this time and more in control; and pulled his hands through his hair, and could taste the remains of last night's wine on his tongue. Wine had not helped – the dream haunted him and would not let him go.

It had been a week since their return from rescuing the King and d'Artagnan from the real possibility of serving as slaves on a Spanish ship. The whole search had been a waking nightmare. At every turn, new revelations as to their whereabouts led to new fears; and now, a week later, he was exhausted from it.

Athos dug the heels of his hands into his eye lids and behind the spots recalled the panic of d'Artagnan gone missing; blood in the street; and trolling the underbelly of the city, where corpses lay waiting to be claimed.

He had thought d'Artagnan dead, and it had shattered him; opening up wounds he had built walls around to protect his sanity – a precarious sanity, already fraught with fissures and cracks. All it would take to bring it crashing down would be one precise blow.

The only thing that kept him moving forward were his brothers – who seemed sure that d'Artagnan lived; and duty to his sovereign. When he had laid eyes on d'Artagnan running toward them – smiling; that look of fierce determination set in his eyes – he had almost lost his seat with relief. That was reality – his dreams told untruths.

Athos sat up straight; rubbed at his tired eyes and resolved to get moving.

He needed to see d'Artagnan; to spar – to work up a sweat – to be challenged; to see him laugh.

When Athos removed his hands from his eyes – he noticed shadows in the room and faint rays of light filtering through the window. The day was about to begin – his routine; his morning ritual would help calm his nerves. He would seek out d'Artagnan and all would be well.

* * *

d'Artagnan stared at the ceiling from his pallet. The night was taking forever to end. Crickets chirped outside his window, and reminded him of the woods.

He could not sleep. For the past week, he had dreamed of capture; torture; and the long agonizing walk through the Forest of Evreux. But most of all, he dreamed of Pepin.

Every time he closed his eyes; death visited him in the form of Pepin – standing before him; at the foot of his pallet – by the door or near the window; his eyes sad, pleading – with outstretched hands – moving his lips, speaking to him in a silent language he couldn't interpret.

He closed his eyes – but there Pepin stood – so he sat up instead, covering his face with his hands – wishing the sun would come up, in order for the day to begin.

Routine was what he needed. To meet with Athos and his brothers in the yard – to spar – to sweat – to drive Pepin from his thoughts through sheer force of will.

But the sun would not rise for hours yet; and he needed to get out – away from this stifling air; and Pepin's pleading eyes. To move is what he needed – not to lay here and wait for death to visit.

So he rose; dressed; stepped from the room and prepared himself to walk the streets of Paris. Perhaps, during this quiet time, he could think; and ban these dreams from his consciousness.

Walking at a steady pace through the streets; d'Artagnan thought how rare it was that he had a chance to see the city this way. It was quiet; hushed – the only other persons he noticed along the way were the lamplighters – dousing the flames of lanterns lining the streets – readying for dawn; the street sweepers; and the occasional Red Guard patrolling the area.

Unlike the daytime – where Parisians bumped; pushed and shoved without apology – rushing to get on with life – this time of day was smooth, unhurried – the calm before the storm.

The air even smelled different – clean, fresh; wet with mist from the dense fog – that rolled eerily close to the ground like steam from a boiling pot. As he walked through the foggy gas – the cooling mist dampened his hair and face – much like a cold compress. This was good. He needed this – maybe by the time he returned to the garrison, the worrisome threads of his harrowing experience, which pulled at him nightly, would unwind and drift away.

But for each step he took, his mind fell on his disappointment with his King – who would have him kill a man on command; as if he were an assassin. From there his thoughts turned to Pepin's wife and child – who were alone now, because he had turned his back for a moment; and then did not go back to save him. And finally – there was Athos – who had fallen into the bottle each night and would not share his worries with him or even with Aramis and Porthos.

Was this his doing? Was this what he inspired in people? To his King – blind obedience without morals; to Pepin – death without purpose and to Athos – worry so strong it would lead to drink; for he suspected that was what his nocturnal visits to the tavern were about.

During the day, Athos had become aloof – putting him at arm's length, wary of him; but at the same time ever present – watchful; protective at a distance. Over time, he had come to know Athos' moods – and had seen this before when he, or one of the others were injured; so had thought to let this run its course.

But something about him this time was different – and he wished Athos would open up about it. They had made progress – he thought, moving past mentor and student – and now interacted as equals. But he could see this was not so much the case – perhaps, never would be. He would always be the youngest it seemed.

So deep in thought was d'Artagnan, that he did not sense the three men who had been watching and following him since his departure from the garrison. They stood back – still – flattened against brick walls and hidden by darkened alleyways and the moving mist.

Instead, he noticed the empty, abandoned tavern that loomed before him – The Crow. The windows had been boarded up, and there a sign on the door was posted, informing intended patrons that the establishment was now closed. d'Artagnan stared idly at the building – frowning with concentration.

This is where it all began – this was the very street where he and the King had been waylaid – abducted; and forced upon a journey he would not soon forget.

He looked down at his wrists and could still see the marks and bruises from the manacles he had been forced to wear for days – could still feel the ache in his legs from their forced march; and then frantic escape over rough terrain and through thick underbrush; and then there was Pepin – dead because of him.

As he made his way past the abandoned tavern – the three shadowy figures rushed him; took him unawares – one knocking him about the head and shoulders with the butt of his firearm. d'Artagnan fell to a knee, "How stupid", he thought to himself; as the glancing blows left him seeing stars – the inseparables would call him foolish for feeling safe in the streets of Paris.

He reached for the hilt of his sword and was hit again about his temple – this time his thought was to call out for Athos to help him, but his name never left his lips – getting stuck in his throat and bounced around his throbbing head. He was out before he hit the ground – his sword skittering away into a nearby alley – lost in the shadows and beneath collected rubbish.

"He's dead", one called out distressed, "What did you hit him so hard for?"

"Shut up Rene, he isn't dead", the other hissed back, "Let's get him into The Crow – hurry help me."

Together the two men lifted an unconscious d'Artagnan and dragged his unresisting body between them; the third looking out for onlookers; just as the sun began to peek over the horizon.

* * *

As Athos stepped through the gate and into the garrison yard – he stopped short and looked behind him. He could have sworn he heard d'Artagnan calling his name from across the street – so he waited.

After a moment of scanning the area - looking first right, then left – he grabbed his neck and massaged his shoulder, attempting to ease a tension there, and shook his head. Were his dreams now following him into the daylight?

Across the way – he could see his brothers seated at their table – already breaking fast and wondered at how early they were and earlier still Serge was with the meal. He made his way to them and sat down heavily – his body weary from lack of sleep; and too much wine.

Aramis and Porthos glanced to each other and then studied their friend openly. They had agreed to meet here early – and intercept their friend before the day began. It was time to talk.

It had not been a secret, that for this past week, they had been worried for Athos. He would not eat; had distanced himself and drank at night alone – asking for space, and of course they obliged. However, now things were coming to a head, and the proof of it sat before them.

Athos looked rough and worse for wear – so Aramis stated the obvious – "No sleep again I see", gesturing toward his friend, bringing to attention the dark smudges under his eyes; and the pinched look to his face.

Athos had no reply, for it was true; sleep had eluded him once again.

Porthos watched him closely, and gestured toward the warm bread on the table, "Come, eat something", pushing an empty plate in his direction.

Athos raised a hand to decline – wine sitting thickly in his stomach; just the thought of food causing bile to rise in the back of his throat. He coughed a little; turned away and kept an eye on the yard, hoping to spot d'Artagnan on his arrival.

Aramis placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward; attempting to garner his friend's attention, "Then if you won't share the meal with us; please share what troubles you. This has been going on for too long." Aramis communicated a look with Pothos, who with a nod encouraged him to continue, "We have seen this dark mood before Athos, and it never ends well. If you wish a satisfactory conclusion to whatever is going on with you, we are here to help."

Athos considered two of his best friends before him, and wondered if he should tell them about his dream; how it consumed his nights, and now seemed to be creeping into the day. Perhaps he was just losing his mind – his thin hold on sanity finally leaving him - or could it be that the dream really meant something?

Athos thought on it and finally gave in; their sincere concern tipping the scales in their favor. He rubbed his eyes wearily and took a deep breath, "My dreams deceive me and won't let me sleep. When I close my eyes we find d'Artagnan dead in Evreux. It is so intense; so clear. Sometimes when I wake, it's as if the dream is real; and I am living the lie. I can hear his voice calling me, and then I wake up."

Porthos nodded in understanding; for he had relived many a battle in his dreams that seemed as real as when the moment they happened; causing him to actually unsheathe his sword, looking for the enemy- ready to fight to the death. Yes, he understood how a dream could feel true.

Aramis nodded in assent also – Savoy was as real to him in his dreams today as it was five years ago. Time had not dampened the feel of snow in his eyes; the wet flakes soaking through his clothes, the taste of blood in his mouth – or the smell of death, which sometimes overtook him at odd moments when he did not expect it. So yes, he too understood how dreams could ring genuine.

Porthos looked between his brothers, "You know d'Artagnan has been troubled with dreams also. His mind falls on Monsieur Pepin. He thinks it's his fault that Pepin was killed; that he should have gone back for him. He says the man visits him as death, and won't let him rest."

Athos frowned and took in the faces of his worried friends. This revelation of d'Artagnan's dream could not be a coincidence. That they both dreamed of death; concerning the same events? What of the odds?

In that moment of understanding Athos felt a pull; and stood from the bench. He turned then and walked toward the gate as if listening to something only he could hear. Aramis and Porthos exchanged curious looks – worry creasing their brows.

As Athos made his way to the street; he closed his eyes and felt the ghost of his name on the other side and crossed over. Aramis and Porthos followed without hesitation. "What is it Athos – what do you hear?" Aramis asked, wondering if he dreamed now.

Athos raised his hand for his friends to stand still with him, and asked, "Where is d'Artagnan?"

"It is early yet. I'm hoping he could find rest last night" Porthos offered, remembering how d'Artagnan had shared his dream and worried for his reason.

Athos nodded, but continued walking, searching the awakening city streets; an urgency now in his step. Aramis and Porthos followed close behind. They recognized this – Athos was absorbed in a task now, they would be unable to steer him from. They had witnesses this in him before – his uncanny ability to focus; to tap into hidden reserves - and trusted his instincts.

d'Artagnan was in trouble somewhere; and Athos was looking for him.

So, they walked a pace behind, letting him lead the way – their hands ready on their hilts – prepared to do battle.

* * *

d'Artagnan was painfully startled awake by a kick to his ribs, that sent Pepin's aura dissipating in haste – and for him to draw in a spastic gulp of air – that strangled in his lungs. The pain was sudden; and he could not draw air, so he wasn't prepared to be dragged to a sitting position and slapped in the face.

When he attempted to raise his arms to defend himself – he found that his hands were tied together with a thick rope in front of him. The rope bound him so tight that he could not feel his fingers – he could barely rasp in a breath; and he could not see through the red veil that covered his right eye.

Where was he? Was he back on the forced march to Evreux – walking his way to imprisonment – or worse, death? This did not feel like the forest – the ground here was hard, not damp and earthy.

Another slap to his face had him opening his eyes wide – the confusing surroundings made him realize he was not outdoors – inside then; underground somehow – barrels all around. He squeezed his eyes shut – attempting to think clearly. He was in a cellar of some sort. He could feel the presence of one of his captors leaning over him, and could hear the breathing of others in the background.

He groaned and licked his lips – feeling a cut and tasting blood in his mouth; he wheezed in a breath, finally able to pull in air. Another kick landed at his hip; and his side ignited on fire. What was happening?

"Are you even listening to me?" a voice demanded loudly from the shadows. "Our brother, musketeer, you have killed our brother!" the voice screamed at him manically – punctuated with another kick to his hip and then his back.

d'Artagnan attempted to curl in on himself to protect his body, but was pulled again to a sitting position and pushed against a barrel. He looked through the red haze of his sight to take in his abuser – a burly man whose face was red with hysteria.

"What do you mean?" he rasped, at the agitated man in front of him.

The man then grabbed d'Artagnan by the collar of his tunic; shook him hard enough to spike pain in his aching head, and screamed through spittle, "Don't lie to me! You know just what I'm talking about." He threw d'Artagnan against the barrel and turned away to address the men in the shadows.

"I saw him do it!" He then turned back to d'Artagnan pointing at him and then accused, "I saw you pull Gus from his horse and kill him. You stabbed him through his heart. So don't lie to me."

d'Artagnan hissed in a breath, his mind whirling. Moving from the shadows and into the light of the single lantern sitting atop a barrel of wine – he saw two other men – one an anxious looking boy; the other an uncertain young man about his age. His tormenter moved toward him again with murderous rage on his face; lifting his hand to strike him again.

d'Artagnan stared down his attacker, ready to absorb the hit; too spent to raise his hands in defense, when he heard the urgent voice of the youngest, causing the hand to stay, " Bertrand, please stop. I thought we were going to talk to him and find out what happened?"

"I know what happened Pierre. I followed Gus, I saw it all."

d'Artagnan squinted his eyes against the blaring pain in his head to see Bertrand glaring at him; gesturing hopelessly in his direction, "He has taken everything from us. Our business; livelihood; he has killed our brother." Bertrand lowered his head, and spoke softly, "I had to drag Gus' body through the woods, and bury him with no marker. Over his grave, I swore revenge, and we will have it."

Off to his side, d'Artagnan heard the third speak, "But I think we should….."

"I'll do the thinking Rene! Gus is no longer here, and now I'm the eldest."

"I think you should hear us out Bertrand …" But the boy got no further. d'Artagnan watched as Bertrand moved quietly to his brother and placed his hands on his shoulders.

"I think you should go Pierre. Go home. You weren't here. You've seen nothing." He turned from his brother and then pushed him from behind, toward the ladder leading up to the tavern, "Go home."

Pierre looked back at his brothers; Rene nodding at him to go now - squeezing his shoulder – with a resigned air. So he bounded up the ladder; tore through the tavern; and raced out the side entrance – making his way home through tears of frustration. He knew in that moment, he would never see his brothers again.

d'Artagnan watched the exchange between the three brothers – his head; his side; his back; and his face aching. He would die down here if nothing changed soon. He could attest to this, for there standing behind the ladder watching him, was Pepin; with those sad eyes, moving his lips, trying to impart some message.

d'Artagnan turned away from him, and thought of his own brothers. Athos and the others had found him before – searched the city up and down; and had traveled far to rescue him. Perhaps they would find him again.

d'Artagnan watched as Bertrand moved toward him once more. He understood this pain the man was feeling. Would he not do the same? But what of Pepin; did he not deserve justice also? What of all the people Gus had killed that day; of all the lives he deemed unimportant and condemned to slavery – didn't they deserve something?"

But before he could even try to reason with him, Bertrand rushed at him, screaming, "Whatever he did, whatever he was – he was our brother!" And in that moment, pulled back his fist and struck him squarely in the temple.

His last thought before darkness took him was of Athos, Aramis, Porthos and his dear Constance – his family – who would never know what happened to him. But then he saw Pepin reappear from the mist, and begged him not to take him.

* * *

The three musketeers walked the streets as if they were on patrol – taking notice of every detail – such as early risers getting their carts ready for market; store front owners opening doors and sweeping away the debris from the night before; ladies and gentlemen, slowly making their way home to sleep during the day; so as to be ready by nightfall.

They were in pursuit and would not be deterred.

Athos walked slowly, but with taunt urgency. Aramis and Porthos noted that he seemed to know where he was going, yet not. When he stopped in his tracks – he took no notice of where they really were – only that the sense of d'Artagnan ended here.

Porthos looked around, "You have brought us to The Crow." He gestured to the abandoned building, "Since we did away with the LeMaitre brothers and Gus – this place has been closed down."

At that moment, a young man in his teen years rushed across their paths – breathing hard; swiping tears from his face. He seemed in a great hurry to get somewhere.

Aramis looked after his fleeing form, curious as to what he could be doing, out and about on this off street; this time of morning.

Athos ignored him and crossed over to the nearby alley – bent down, then reached beneath a pile of rubbish. There he touched on and lifted away d'Artagnan's sword.

He held it up for the others to see; and strode purposefully toward the tavern; and reached for the door. When it would not open, Aramis pointed to the side of the building, "That boy ran from this way", and led his brothers to an open side entrance.

The three of them then exchanged a brief glance; unsheathed their swords and entered The Crow. Inside was dark, with streaks of light straining between boarded up windows. The last time they were here, the King had wanted to go on an adventure; to be an ordinary man. But his experiment had ended in near disaster – averted only by d'Artagnan's sheer tenacity; Anne's unexpected assistance; and luck.

Porthos pulled down a plank from one of the windows and light spilled in to reveal the empty tables, unoccupied chairs and the vacant room where unsavory individuals would come to commence dishonest business.

They walked the room at first hearing only their footsteps on creaking floorboard; when suddenly below their feet they heard a raised voice. Someone was below them, screaming obscenities in a rage. Searching the floor; Athos pointed toward the trap door that must lead to the cellar. They sheathed their swords and silently readied themselves.

Porthos leaned down to grab the rope, and held up his fist, pantomiming the count, "One, two…"

On "three", he pulled the rope, and the trap door opened; with Athos sliding down the ladder first. And as he reached the bottom, he saw standing over d'Artagnan a large man of Porthos' size and build – his face red with fury striking down on d'Artagnan – and he knew no more.

He charged forward; not hearing the others slide down the ladder behind him; threw d'Artagnan's weapon to the side, and grabbed the man by the back of his neck; and hauled him back off his feet. He watched the man hit the ground with dispassion – and a cold indifferent rage took over. He looked down on the man, and felt his fists clench tight at his side of their own accord. A heat began to coil in the pit of his stomach; build up in his chest and grow red in his eyes.

When Aramis hit the ground, he noticed Athos standing over someone, and another moving to attack him from the back. d'Artagnan lay unmoving on the ground – blood covering the side of his face; his hands tied. He moved quickly to contain the other – pulling his sword – aiming at the man's throat, "Stand down. We are the King's musketeers. If you move, I will run you through!" The man seemed to freeze – not sure what to do; but obeyed the direct order.

Porthos slid down the ladder; moved past Aramis, and slid to the ground next to d'Artagnan; and gently sat him up to lean against the barrel behind him. His eyes were closed; blood stained the side of his face; dripping down his neck into the collar of his tunic – his hair matted and slick. Porthos touched the side of his face, and noticed the split lip and a bruise already forming on his left temple. He hurriedly removed the ropes from his wrists – calling the boy's name – tapping his cheek lightly.

Behind him, without warning, Athos had reached down and grabbed d'Artagnan's abuser about his collar, and with one hand began to beat him about the face relentlessly, striking him over and over – blood forming quickly around his eyes; nose; mouth and ears.

d'Artagnan woke to noise – a tapping to his cheek – and Aramis yelling for Athos to stop, "You will kill him", echoing in the small, close space.

d'Artagnan forced his eyes open, and at first, he could only see shadows. But then he recognized Porthos kneeling in front of him; holding him up by the shoulders – Aramis to his side holding his sword on Rene; and then to Athos beating Bertrand to death; the steady rhythm of his fists meeting flesh, causing him to wince.

He looked then to Porthos, and with steel in his voice insisted, "Help me up – get me on my feet." As he spoke the words, he could feel that nausea was spinning in his stomach; blood rushed in his ears and the taste of copper pooled in his mouth. He could feel his eyes rolling and knew he would pass out again, if did not get on his feet.

Porthos understood in an instant; nodded, and pulled him up into a standing position – holding on to his shoulders so he would not fall.

d'Artagnan leaned heavily against his friend; coughed; cleared his throat and spit blood from his mouth onto the cellar floor. He gathered his strength and called out, "Athos stop!"

d'Artagnan watched as Athos' armed raised to strike again, but then stay at his plea; his arm trembling with tension and rage in midair; hovering over Bertrand's bloodied face and limp body.

"I'm okay", he rasped – pushing away from Porthos' protective hold; locking his knees to stand on his own. The ground tilted beneath him, and he could feel his body lean – but felt Porthos pull at the back of his tunic to stand him straight.

Athos lowered his fist closer to Bertrand's face ready to finish what he started – a low growl emitting from his belly; but d'Artagnan's voice persisted around the edges of his rage, "Look at me please. I'm okay."

Aramis pushed Rene aside and with a lethal look instructed the man to stay put. He sheathed his sword, and moved slowly toward Athos, ready to envelop him – if d'Artagnan could not convince him to break off.

Athos turned little by little to take in the sight of d'Artagnan; Bertrand still held tightly in his grip, by the throat of his collar. His hold on Bertrand began to falter as he watched d'Artagnan take a faltering step in his direction. And then as he took another step, his heart rate began to steady; and as he moved closer still, the heat in the pit of his stomach began to dissipate; and lastly his fists uncurled, and Bertrand dropped to the floor, a dead weight.

Aramis sighed with relief, and felt his knees weaken. He leaned against a barrel of wine; let the tension of the moment pour from him and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Porthos placed his hands on his hips, bowed his head, and contemplated on what had just been averted. Rene ran to his brother's side; fell to his knees and wept openly.

"See, I'm okay", d'Artagnan repeated soothingly as Athos reached out to him as a father reaches out to catch his child taking his first steps. When they met, Athos grabbed him about the shoulders – looked him in the eyes and brought him close. When they withdrew from each other – he touched the side of his face; felt the pull of hate; and looked over his shoulder back at Bertrand laid out on the ground.

He moved to start again, but d'Artagnan grabbed him about the arms to hold him in place, "I killed his brother", he whispered.

Athos turned back to him startled at the declaration – a question in his eyes.

"Gus was their brother", he explained, and then his eyes rolled white and he passed out in Athos' arms, his head falling to the crook of his neck; and his legs no longer holding his weight. Athos then hugged him tight and held him up – refusing to let him fall.

A few moments of silence passed and Athos then looked to his brothers, "Get d'Artagnan out of here. I'll join you later."

Aramis stood tall, and faced his friend. He was wary to leave. Athos still looked as if he would willingly commit murder, and asked, "What are you going to do?"

As Porthos lifted d'Artagnan from his arms and held him about his shoulders and under his knees; his arms and legs swinging boneless between them – he noticed that Athos still trembled with rage, but his face was a mask; and he could not read it.

This was a dangerous moment and he understood Aramis' reluctance to leave him here alone with these men.

Athos bowed his head and asked again, his voice devoid of emotion, "Please Aramis. You and Porthos – take d'Artagnan from here and help him. I will take care of things here; and will do nothing you need worry about."

And so with some hesitation; and unwilling to press the point, they left him in the cellar with the two abductors and carried d'Artagnan swiftly through the streets, back to the garrison.

* * *

d'Artagnan opened his eyes slowly, adjusting his sight to a slightly darkened room. One candle flickered on the table beside his pallet, casting a warm glow – giving him a feeling of safety.

Looking around, he could see that he was in his own room and sitting beside his pallet, chin down on his chest, sat Athos – asleep; his breathing steady and even.

He took inventory of the room and noted that Pepin stood nowhere about – not at the foot of his bed; near the door or in the shadows; it was just he and Athos here. He breathed in deep; and felt an aching pull on his rib cage, that radiated to his hip and then up his back.

He moved his hand from beneath the heavy blanket that covered him and reached to touch the side of his face; and felt a bandage wrapped around his head. His mouth felt dry as a desert, and he licked his lips. The room began to spin – so he squeezed his eyes tight to regain some equilibrium.

When he opened his eyes again, Athos was sitting up, and looking down at him with a questioning expression. His eyes swept the room, and he asked, "Is he here? Is Pepin here with us now?"

d'Artagnan cleared his throat and spoke softly, "No."

Athos stood; poured some water in a cup and returned to his side- placing his hand beneath his neck and shoulders; and lifted his head to help him drink. d'Artagnan drank greedily; but after a few gulps, felt exhausted from the effort – so Athos removed the cup and gently set him down again to rest against the pillows. He smiled fondly at him, and took his seat.

"And in my dreams you are well."

d'Artagnan frowned, unsure of what this meant – but glad to see his friend smiling; so he chanced to ask, " What has happened to Rene and Bertrand?"

Athos hesitated slightly, and answered carefully, "I have sent them away from Paris, on the threat of death. If I see them again, I will kill them." His tone sent a slight chill through d'Artagnan, causing him to tremble and to gasp in pain. Athos reached for his hand and squeezed – waiting with him for the moment to pass.

"Bertrand only wanted revenge, as I wanted it for Pepin", he reasoned.

Athos let go of his hand, and readjusted the blanket around his shoulders, "Gus was a thief, a killer and a slave trader."

d'Artagnan could feel himself flagging – the weight of his injuries dragging him down, making him tired; however, he had to speak on this, "But he was their brother."

Athos brow creased, he knew where d'Artagnan was going with this but he didn't care. Bertrand had attempted to kill him; and if he had his way – would have finished what he had started, "And they only live now, because of you."

He could see that d'Artagnan was fighting sleep and wanted to convince him that he had done the right thing; but to him the matter was closed. "Let's not talk of it again, d'Artagnan. Get some rest."

The pull of sleep was strong, but he wasn't so sure it would be peaceful, "Will you stay?" he asked, his eyes doing that thing no one could resist.

Athos touched the top of his head; and stroked his hair gently, "Yes, I'll stay."

And so - d'Artagnan drifted away to sleep; the room quiet and free from apparitions.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. Reviews are most certainly welcome; very much appreciated; and I just love seeing them pop up in my inbox! I hope you enjoyed this. Some time ago, I wrote a story, The Scarf, during this very same episode – An Ordinary Man. Although this one is quite different, I hope it provides the same amount of angst, I thought this episode was missing and needed more of.


	2. Chapter 2

Conclusions

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong – no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both?

* * *

Chapter 2: Emerging

Thunder rolled all around; causing the earth to quake beneath their feet, rain drops fell fat and steady; and d'Artagnan's spirits were high.

He strode alongside Athos and was happy to be up and about - on his feet and back on patrol. Though he still felt some discomfort in his hip; it was as if the last month of recovery had never happened.

To be here – now – walking the perimeter of the garrison with his best friend, he felt as if he had been let out of a cage. He almost laughed out loud – to be this ecstatic about guard duty – who would have thought it possible? The steady fall of rain – his wet poncho and wet hair, plastered to his face and neck, did not deter his optimism.

He had not considered how much he missed the mundane – until he could not partake in it. The month spent lying in bed – stretching his limbs; taking baby steps; and finally given the all clear to practice had been torture.

But this; back to being a musketeer was what made him feel alive. He couldn't help it; but his grin escaped into a full blown smile, reaching his eyes and causing Athos to grin with him – a slightly confused look skimming over his features.

The night air surrounding him felt cool, wet and exhilarating. His mind was clear – no longer plagued by dreams of Pepin searching him out in his sleep. Instead, now he searched out Pepin's living legacy – visiting with Madame Pepin and little Laura. When he could stand again on his own two feet; when pain no longer chased him back to bed rest – he had taken the time to get to know who Pierre Pepin was through his family.

He had gone to see them recently – his guilt pushing him to check on them – to be sure they were coping the weeks following Pepin's death. He – himself – had not coped well; but it was getting better. And to see them again – help them in some way – he hoped it would aid Pepin's spirit to rest – and in turn his own.

And though Madame Pepin had put on a brave face for his benefit – he could see that her pain was deep; her worries for the future overwhelming; and her concern for Laura immense. But despite this, she readily welcomed him into her home; and seemed eager to speak of her husband's steadfastness; loyalty and love for his family. d'Artagnan was glad to bring her this small bit of comfort.

Sitting at the parlor table in their neat but close home; she had also shared with him that Laura had not spoken since the day he and the others had delivered the terrible news of Pepin's death at her doorstep. It seemed her voice had escaped to the street; and she feared would not return.

The news of her husband's death had devastated her, but Laura had turned inward – and poured all her heart into helping her mother survive her crushing grief. "It does not seem fair that such a little girl should carry such burdens", she had told him.

After the evening meal with the family of two, he and Laura had walked together to the small church at the end of the street – to light a candle for Pepin in remembrance.

And though he had walked slowly – the pain in his hip bothersome – he and Laura walked side by side – both of them stoic and in deep thought. d'Artagnan thinking – how he should have done more to save this child's father – for one day, when she understood better, she would surely blame him for his death as much as he blamed himself.

Halfway to the church – the pain in his hip began to move from bothersome to an ache that throbbed to his back and tightly contracted there. He stopped short – gasped for breath – and tried in vain to gain control over his body; to continue the walk with this child and honor the bravery of her father. At the time, he did not think he could take one more step.

But Laura had stopped alongside him; looked up into his eyes; stood close, turned and offered her shoulder for him to lean on. She had waited patiently for him to understand, and when he held onto her shoulder – he squeezed it tight in gratitude, and he hoped with comfort.

Thinking on that moment now; he knew that he would do whatever was possible; and to offer what he could to this family. He did not have much – no money to speak of, but the Pepin's would forever have his loyalty.

They had continued on to the church, slow in pace; and heavy hearted – lit the candles in solemn comradery and sat silent in the pews. She never smiled or cried – her expression resigned and matter of fact; her only sign of emotion – tightly clasped hands fidgeting in her lap.

He had looked to her and wondered if they shared the same affect; and promised – one day perhaps, they would share a smile instead of this sad countenance.

But until then – they sat quietly, lost in their own worlds, until the bells rang the hour bringing them back to the present. They left the church then, the same as they had entered – he leaning on her small, frail shoulder – she the strong one.

But tonight, he could feel his strength at almost optimum.

His hip, though sore – no longer hindered his movements. His back – no longer tightened up on him at odd times and his face; now clear of bruises appeared as if nothing had ever happened. The physical trauma of that fated morning were gone – the emotional ones, still there beneath the surface.

He had killed someone's brother – and they had come looking for revenge – almost succeeding in taking his life. If not for the man walking beside him, he would have answered Pepin's call to death that day.

So now, he was almost good as new, and tonight, patrolling here with Athos; he would prove that he was ready to go back on active duty.

He had to get back to work – it was time. Another week of forced convalescence and he would go mad. He loved his brothers – but a child he was not. He needed to get from under their coddling soon – before he did something ridiculous.

d'Artagnan could feel the energy in his body ready to explode. If he did not have an outlet soon – he wasn't sure what he would do. Just yesterday, he almost took Cypriene up on a bet that he could scale the pillars at the back of Treville's office to the balcony and walk the railings all the way to the bottom.

He did not have the chance to take Cypriene up on the bet; for as soon as he moved to climb the pillars, Porthos grabbed him by the scruff of his collar; dragged him away – scolding, "Have you lost your mind?" For good measure, he smacked the back of his head; and penned Cypriene with a cold stare, that promised a reprimand at a later date.

Now that he was feeling better there was not enough practice; sparring; shooting or hand to hand that could contain him.

So this felt wonderful. So wonderful, that he found it hard to keep an ear splitting smile from creeping onto his face; to keep this bounce from his step and to force himself not to chatter away about nonsense that Athos would not appreciate.

Tonight, guard duty – tomorrow, a real assignment – he promised himself.

* * *

Athos walked side by side with d'Artagnan and was pleased with what he saw.

Though he noticed a limp – it was very slight; and he saw no evidence of pain etched on his face; or in his gait. Instead what he saw was a wide smile; and bright eyes, under wet, limp hair – that sent rivulets of raindrops streaming down his face.

Was this excitement he saw – and for what, guard duty? He could not help but grin himself.

It was good to see d'Artagnan this way. There was a bounce to his step that belied how eager he was to be let loose. He understood this eagerness – he felt it too. For the past month, he had missed this boy at his side; their missions lacking his enthusiasm and energy.

d'Artagnan's convalescence – though not too long – for what he had been through – had been painful. The forced week in bed had been unbelievably hard to enforce. It had taken the three of them in shifts and the recruitment of their fellow brother musketeers to keep him down.

He had complained – moaned; groaned; and had stooped to cajoling eyes to try and get out of bed – but Aramis had schooled them all on how to ignore the look and do what must be done to help him mend as quickly as possible. And so – he had finally given in – to everyone's relief.

Looking at him now – he could no longer see the physical evidence of the terrible beating he had sustained just over a month ago. Thinking of this now, he still felt a cold rage coursing through his veins toward the brothers who thought they could take revenge out on d'Artagnan for a justified defense of innocent lives.

He squeezed the hilt of his sword beneath his poncho, and imagined himself running Bertrand through – or finishing what he had started and beating the man to death. Even now – he barely had memory of what took place in that cellar. Only that d'Artagnan had walked toward him, bloody; and in pain – pleading for him to stop. Later, he had looked to his swollen and split knuckles wondering at how he had snapped and lost himself.

He wiped the rain from his face and pushed back his hat; there was no doubt in his mind, that one day, he would see Bertrand again – and then that chapter would be closed.

Thunder rumbled again; and his mind lifted from his dark thoughts as he felt a shift in d'Artagnan's mood. He could tell that his mind had fallen now on something more sensitive – as his brow was creased in concentration. He knew that recently his dreams of Pepin had ended, but that now he visited the family and wondered if this was a good thing.

d'Artagnan had a good heart – and sometimes this did not match well with being a soldier. Loss and death were inevitable and could not be prevented, even with the best of intentions; but this was what made d'Artagnan a good man – and he would not discourage it.

Having him walk beside him tonight on duty, felt right. It was as if they moved as one – step for step – their thoughts the same; senses heightened; and awareness on alert. It was almost as if Porthos or Aramis stood with him; but different.

And it was definitely time for him to get back to the business of being a musketeer. Just yesterday, Porthos had come to him explaining d'Artagnan's almost; near; impending fall to his death. "He needs to get back to work before he kills himself", he had bemoaned.

So here they were – walking the perimeter of the garrison – rain steady; and the night sky an inky black with no moon or stars to help illuminate the way.

They would have to use instinct tonight to help keep the garrison safe from intruders.

* * *

All had been quiet and seemed secure until suddenly on their third hour, Athos felt a displacement in the air and came to a halt. d'Artagnan stood close and stopped alongside him; nodded; and could feel it too.

Something was not right. As one, they reached beneath their ponchos and pulled out their firearms; scanned the yard, the archway; and the stable entrance.

They moved forward slowly – listening for any unusual sounds; but only heard the rain hitting the ground; the horses swaying hoof to hoof; crickets chirping; and looking up saw Cypriene, still on watch up above on the wall.

Then, there – on the ground was a downed musketeer – his weapon still with him, unmoving in the mud. They rushed quietly to him, skidded to a halt and kneeled in the forming puddles. Athos touched his back, relieved to feel him breathing evenly with no distress.

He looked to d'Artagnan and answered his questioning look with a nod – Etiene lived. Athos then whistled out a call to alert the others on duty that the garrison had an intruder. d'Artagnan sighed with relief; and stood to make his way to Treville's office.

Whoever did this was headed there – this he knew without reservation. But before he could leave his crouched position, Athos grabbed his arm, and they shared a brief silent communication. He knew it too, and pointed for d'Artagnan to proceed to the back. There were no stairs there, so he knew he'd be climbing and entering through Treville's window, at his living quarters.

He nodded at the direction; and grinned – he would win his bet after all – and took off swiftly.

Athos watched after d'Artagnan with a slight frown. Who would be so bold as to enter the garrison under cover of night; down a musketeer and attack the Captain? And why was d'Artagnan smiling so widely before entering into such a precarious situation? He shook the thoughts loose and made for the stairway that led to Treville's office.

Making his way to the stairway Athos removed his hat, and laid it on the bottom step; and without making a sound, crept up the stairs and entered the door – sliding through a thin opening. He then took refuge in a dark corner of the office and waited. Before him he saw Treville sitting at his desk, with a single candle burning – working on the endless hours of paperwork the man had to endure to keep a place like the garrison running smoothly.

He kneeled low and slowed his breathing. Had he been wrong? All appeared quiet here. Treville had not even noticed that he had entered. When he looked over the Captain's head – he could see d'Artagnan entering from the living quarters – bent low – scanning the room, and then look to him for direction.

He held up his hand for him to stay – wait. All seemed well, but something felt wrong. d'Artagnan agreed, and hunkered down lower into the darkness; held his breath, and let out shallow puffs to keep his presence unknown.

Some moments passed with only the scratching of Treville's quill pen on paper making any noise. Athos was pleased that d'Artagnan made no sound; his skill at stealth improved by leaps and bounds. The room remained still, but for the thunder outside making itself known and the rain pattering on the roof.

Then out of the dark – a figure stood from the ground, as if a ghost, but perhaps instead an assassin, and pulled Treville into a threatening embrace – a knife at his neck – demanding, "If you resist, I will kill you. I want an audience with your king."

And in that moment Athos and d'Artagnan, stood from the shadows, held their firearms out toward the assailant who held their Captain, and surged forward with stealth, twin movements and of one mind.

"Drop your weapon" d'Artagnan spoke evenly – trying to temper the nervousness in his voice.

The assailant looked side to side at the two musketeers and wondered how they had been here without him being aware of them. He had not heard them or even sensed their presence – but he held fast with his purpose, and would not be deterred, until the other spoke with complete dispassion, "Or we will kill you where you stand."

Tariq Alaman released Treville, and lowered his weapon. The rain outside seemed to have peeked to a storm. His arms dropped to his sides and his gaze studied the ground – defeated. He had lost before he could even get started.

In that moment, Porthos, Aramis and several others rushed the room; and held the intruder at bay.

* * *

After interrogating General Alaman; and then escorting him to the garrison holding cells – the four musketeers left Treville's office weary to the bone.

The rain had stopped, and the air had transformed itself from cool and refreshing to a muggy humidity. Walking together through the muddy yard the four thought on how in a few hours, the sun would be up, and they would all meet with the King to witness this miracle gun powder - Alaman was willing to trade, as a once loyal subject; but now as a traitor to Spain.

d'Artagnan yawned and stretched his body tall, and felt the rain induced ache in his hip and back make themselves known; he groaned and clutched at his side. He was tired, and rest would ease this misery he felt.

When he looked to his brothers, they were watching him with concern; remembering not so long ago his weakened state – and the pain he had endured. Staring down all three, d'Artagnan announced, "I'm alright! Rest will do the trick." And before they could voice their trepidation, raced off toward his quarters – calling over his shoulder – "I'll see you in the morning", giving them no time to decide he could not join them.

"You know, we could just leave him behind" stated Porthos in a matter of fact tone, as he watched d'Artagnan move quickly away from them.

"He would never forgive us" Aramis said with certainty.

"I believe him ready", added Athos with a slight smile. He then turned to his friends, "He climbed the pillars to reach Treville's window." Aramis could hear a hint of pride there and chuckled softly.

"Well then", bellowed Porthos, "I have won the bet, and will let the others know that they owe me the ten livre!" He moved away from the others laughing heartily and rubbed his hands together in amusement. "I will see you gents in the morning."

As they said good night to Porthos and watched him move away, Aramis turned to Athos, "So you think him ready – his hip…"

"Is sore, but serviceable", interrupted Athos.

Aramis searched Athos' face and let it drop. The two men were much alike, and arguing the point that d'Artagnan could use another week to recover would get him nowhere. Athos' mind was made up. He saw something tonight that made him think d'Artagnan was ready, and would not be persuaded otherwise.

"Then" Aramis sighed, "I will see you in the morning; Good-night my friend." As Aramis moved away, his mind wandered to thoughts of his Queen and her distress over the illness of their son.

Athos inclined his head – good-night; and made his way out of the garrison yard to his lodgings.

Tomorrow they would have audience with the King – see the workings of this miracle explosive powder and hope that France finally had a way to gain advantage over Spain.

* * *

As the smoke cleared, and frightened citizens began to emerge from hiding beneath carts; from behind walls; and clutching at each other – d'Artagnan sat on the blood stained ground, stunned at the turn of events.

The plan to rescue Samara had been simple; only it did not turn out that way. Alaman had lied – he did not have the cypher; Samara had been recaptured; Porthos was injured, and dragged away as a hostage. d'Artagnan shook his head in disbelief.

He could not understand how the plan had disintegrated into chaos. Aramis had not been able to take the shot that would bring down Baltasar, and now five innocent Parisians were dead in the street.

He sat here now next to one of them; a girl, only a few years older than Laura – dead; shot in the chest by a Spanish arrow. Nothing could be done, but to watch her take her last labored breaths. Not moments ago, she had clutched at his hand; coughed up blood and begged him to find her mother – her face streaked with tears.

His eyes had welled up as her grip on his hand loosened and fell away; but he swiped them away before the others could see. Off to the side, he noticed Athos talking intently to Aramis. What had happened? They had waited for the shot – anticipating success to this mission. Instead, Porthos was gone; and citizens were dead through no fault of their own; caught between Spain and France on a sunny day on the way to market.

He looked back down at this young girl; closed her vacant eyes to the world; stood, and lifted her up into his arms. She felt so light – her spirit already released. He carried her carefully to lay her beside the others to now wait to be identified by family, once the word spread that there had been a massacre at the Place de L'Eglise.

d'Artagnan sat next to her, and the others, to wait with them; sorry for his part in this terrible; horrible event.

Sensing his despondency, Athos; moved toward him through the crowd of people - trying to bring order to this senseless bloodshed, and placed his hand on his shoulder. "Let us move from here d'Artagnan, so that the families can look for their loved ones."

d'Artagnan stood and walked some distance away with his friend, before turning back to sear the image of this moment in his brain; vowing not to forget; wondering of Porthos – worried that he may be dead also; and said aloud, "What do we do now?"

Aramis then joined them, his heart caught in his throat, unable to provide an answer – for all of this death may be his doing. And if Porthos survived – would he ever forgive him?

Athos heard the uncertainty in his voice – grabbed him with both hands about his neck – forcing him to make eye contact with him; and spoke emphatically, "Porthos is alive. We will get him back." He looked to Aramis then, intending the message for them both.

d'Artagnan nodded within his grip. Athos sounded so certain – so it must be true. He reached up and held on to his forearms, and took a deep breath. "Yes", he agreed – they would gather themselves; plan a counter move, and tomorrow bring their friend out of Spanish territory and back into the safety of France.

* * *

As they rushed from Baltasar's safe house; Athos almost laughed out loud with relief. They had done it – escaped Baltasar with Porthos – injured, but very much alive. Athos marveled at Porthos' tenacity and bravery. The man had the strength and fortitude of ten. He had managed to free himself and Samara, and had met them where they held Alaman, as if it was planned that way all along. The cypher was lost to Spain for the moment– but it didn't matter, they had their brother and at Alaman's insistence his daughter.

Treville had arrived just in time with reinforcements; and the Spanish safe house was surrounded by a regiment of musketeers. A shot echoed through the house out into to the court where they stood – Samara screamed; and then the world exploded – stone and rock rained down and he was thrown forcibly away from the building – hitting the ground with such force, he felt a rib crack. He must have also struck his head – because everything was spinning and weaving in and out of focus.

When he stood to take in his surroundings, he choked and coughed on smoke and debris – heard Samara screaming for her father; saw Porthos grabbing for her to shield her from his disfigured remains; Aramis coughing up smoke beside him – but he could not see d'Artagnan.

The smoke was thick and soupy and his vision would not cooperate. Where was he? Had he been buried under rock and stone? Was he lying somewhere a distance away – unable to call out to them? Had the blast deposited him so far away that he could not see him? Because he was alive; if he were dead – wouldn't he know it? Wouldn't he feel an empty space and the sense of him gone? No, d'Artagnan was alive here somewhere, he just needed to find him.

Athos fell to a knee – vertigo so strong assailed him that he turned his head and threw up. Aramis was at his side holding him up, saying words he could not understand. The only thing he wanted to hear was that d'Artagnan had survived the blast that had almost destroyed the whole street.

He then felt the earth tilt sideways and he fell with it; Aramis gently lowering him to the ground. Looking up to the sky he could only see dust filtering down on him like snow. When he tried to sit up – his broken rib ground inside his body – causing him to groan with pain, so he lay back, trying to breathe through it and regain his senses.

He then turned to Aramis, a real fear tearing him apart, his battle with unconsciousness beating him down. "Where is he?" he rasped; grabbing the front of Aramis' coat; and pulling him down to hear him clearly. "Go and find him" he pleaded, weakness dragging him under. When he gave the order – he could feel himself slipping down into darkness, unable to keep his hold on wakefulness; afraid he would never see d'Artagnan again. He let loose of Aramis' coat, giving him permission to leave his side and go find their youngest.

And just as he was about to lose the fight and succumb to the shadows– d'Artagnan limped into his vision, struggling through the soupy dust. He let go of the tension in his body and watched as d'Artagnan climbed over rock and stone; finally reaching him and falling heavily to his knees – yelling his name. Athos relaxed further, sighed; and then closed his eyes to rest, and thanked God that this boy was alive. Then he felt a shaking about his shoulders and d'Artagnan calling out, "Athos – please!"

And just those two words tore him from the edge and pulled him back to awareness. He could deny d'Artagnan nothing – and so forced his eyes open and focused his sight on the distraught boy beside him, willing the darkness to recede.

He looked up at d'Artagnan and smiled reassuringly – "I'm okay. I'm okay."

d'Artagnan bent down and pressed his forehead into Athos' shoulder and let out a shaking breath. "I was thrown away from the building by the blast. When I couldn't find you, I thought…"

Athos reached out and touched the top of his head, carding his fingers through dusty hair, finding a lump there at the base of his skull; then moved to squeeze his shoulder, feeling slight tremors beneath his hand. After a moment; Aramis interrupted, "Can you stand Athos – we need to move from this smoke and rubble and get you and Porthos some help."

Athos shifted to his elbows and tested out his limbs – feeling every bump and bruise.

Close by; the three could hear and see Samara screaming in Porthos' arms – inconsolable; unaware of her surroundings; losing the ability to stand on her own – so lost in her grief.

Athos nodded, "Yes, just give me a moment. Go and see to them", he nodded in Porthos' direction. "They need you more than I".

Aramis clapped his shoulder and left his field of vision – moving cautiously toward Samara's wails.

D'Artagnan then sat up on his haunches and gently helped Athos to a sitting position – watching him closely for any signs of other injury; and asked warily, "Are you being truthful Athos? Are you really okay?"

Athos smiled ruefully and reached for his side, "A cracked rib maybe; but nothing else I can't recover from", he grimaced as pain spiked behind his eye lids.

d'Artagnan sat down beside him; amongst the debris – feeling grateful that everyone was alive, if not worse for wear. He saw Aramis and Porthos attempting to console Samara and turned to his friend. "You were right", he said. "Porthos is alive and we got him back", a glint of pride in his eye and unwavering faith in his voice.

Athos held his head in his hands, the spinning sensation getting the better of him, "A fitting conclusion to this terrible mess", he sighed, as the others moved toward them to sit nearby; for nothing else mattered – not King, not country – and certainly not the cypher; only that they had all survived this day.

* * *

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review and let me know what you think. Your comments and thoughts are much appreciated! Thank you to those of you who have already read and reviewed chapter one; and those of you have favorited and clicked the follow button. It helps to know that you the reader are enjoying these stories. Thanks again!


	3. Chapter 3

Conclusions

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong – no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both?

* * *

Chapter 3: In Sync

It was such a crisp day; the early morning air cool and bracing – causing a slight tingle to his ears and fingertips. d'Artagnan blew out a breath and watched as frost expelled like fog before his eyes. He smiled widely as tears, provoked by the chilly weather welled in his eyes, and fell down his cheeks.

He swiped them away – breathing in deep to form another cloud.

He heard Porthos laugh quietly beside him and felt his cheeks burn red with embarrassment. He could not help it if mornings like this brought him such joy. The sun's shining rays through the trees reminded him of Lupiac and riding with his father in the early hours, on their way to market. Such good moments they were – quiet, peaceful – shared instances of love and gratitude for their time together.

It was rare that he thought happily of his father and reflected fondly on the small moments they shared together. Most times, his memories fell to blood – death – rain; and caused him great pain and melancholy. But today, this ride through the woods brought back a good memory, that made him smile; blow frost from his mouth and think of home.

And like Porthos – his father would laugh at his antics – and scold him with little heat; to stop daydreaming and keep his eyes on the road.

How he missed his father. Not a day would go by that he did not think of him. He laughed softly with his brother; and was glad that his grief today was tempered with happiness. Perhaps he was now turning a corner, and his memories from here on would be colored with moments like this, instead of the heavy weight of guilt.

If this was the case – he only had to look to the three men riding beside him – to know where it stemmed from. Their unwavering brotherhood had saved his life and given him purpose. He owed them everything; and would do anything for them.

Today, they were on the pathway that led to the encampment site of one Emilie of Duras. Word was that she had led thousands here to the outskirts of Paris – gathering an army in King Louis' name to destroy the anti-Christ – who she envisioned as Kind Phillip of Spain.

And though today's purpose was important – to assess Emilie's degree of threat – d'Artagnan observed his brothers worriedly and thought how lately something had changed between them.

Ever since the massacre at Place de L'Eglise; and the loss of the cypher – he had noticed Aramis' distracted behavior; the strain between Porthos and Captain Treville; and Athos' reserved air– quieter than usual – as if he was in perpetual thought.

He loved these men – but recently they had shut him out of their personal musings – leaving him to guess at their concerns.

When pressed to share – they only smiled and dismissed his worries as either his imagination; nothing to stress over; or in Athos' case, and in his own words – "his burdens were his own." So for now he would watch and wait; help unobtrusively when he could; offer support when warranted; and most of all not be a nuisance – stay out of trouble; so as not to add to their difficulties.

So far, he had been able to do this; and vowed to continue in this vein.

But sooner or later – as grievances do – they rear up to cause torment and strike when least expected. He watched his brothers closely and promised silently that on the day this happened, he would be ready.

However – for now – in this moment; all was well; their camaraderie – a welcome balm to his own spirit that brought him peace.

d'Artagnan smiled then and thought of Constance. Things had been different with her also. Recently they had taken to conversing as friends – going for walks on the palace grounds; speaking about things of little importance; but glad to be in each other's company.

This was good. If she would not love him – then a friend he was willing to be. At first, talking with her had been awkward – he had felt betrayed; and abandoned. But now – he understood her point of view; and had let his resentments of their circumstances go.

He would love Constance always. No other woman would capture his heart and soul as she had. If friendship was what they were now relegated to, then he would be the best of friends, for as long as it could last.

He smiled at this thought and heard Aramis say at his shoulder – with a twinkle in his eye, "I see you think of Constance".

d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and returned the mischievous glint, "How did you know?"

Aramis chuckled lightly, "And how do I not know d'Artagnan. You wear your heart on your sleeve; and she is easy to read on your face."

"Then I must learn to harness the Athos in me", d'Artagnan laughed heartily – putting on a serious expression.

And just as he imagined Constance's blinding smile – Athos came to a halt at the top of the rise – his horse braying and stomping his hoof in deference. Joining his side, d'Artagnan looked down – and there below them thrived a massive tent city that spread out for some distance.

Aramis and Porthos pulled up beside them, and all four musketeers surveyed the astonishing scene below. This was indeed a city – and not just in name. The amount of organization it would take to move this amount of people from one township to another was impressive; and would take great leadership.

And there, in the midst of thousands riding among them on her white horse was that leader – a small, diminutive woman dressed as if for battle; speaking in a firm, commanding voice. Not a sound could be heard from the crowd of people surrounding her – which included men, and women – who were young, old; healthy, infirmed; with a smattering of small children and babies – running carefree among the tents and around the legs of their elders.

Her voice could be heard clearly from where the musketeers sat above them on the rise– her message booming with certainty. Her bright red hair – gleaming in the sunlight – standing out among the throng, "I have looked on King Phillip of Spain in his true self", she pronounced, "the anti-Christ, the enemy of God." Her reverence was palpable – her belief tinged with a slight hysteria.

Silence met her declaration; and all eyes were on her – everyone holding their breath, while she spoke of marching on Spain and destroying the devil – lifting her eyes to the heavens and reaching her hands up, as if to greet God himself.

She was spellbinding. d'Artagnan watched as Emilie of Duras looked out over her people and grabbed her heart to show her love.

The crowd of thousands erupted in cheering and adoration; the level of noise penetrating the quiet forest – now a cacophony of chanting. Her name bounced off the trees and echoed up through the branches; causing the birds to take flight into the clear sky.

d'Artagnan looked to his brothers, his own thoughts of love and brotherhood now drifting away – replaced with concern for the scene below, "She is mad", he thought aloud.

Athos turned to him and frowned, "And dangerous."

The four all nodded in agreement and rode forward to meet Emilie of Duras.

* * *

Hidden among the multitude of thousands – Bertrand could not believe his eyes. There moving toward them on horseback were the musketeers who had ruined his life.

He lifted his hood, and covered his features – hoping to remain unnoticed by the four men.

If the one called Athos saw him here – he had no doubt his life would be forfeit in an instant. What were they doing here? Certainly they had not come looking for him.

The last time he saw Athos – the man had escorted him and his brothers out of Paris; and had made it clear that if he ever saw him again – he would kill him. Bertrand had no illusions that Athos was a man of his word. Even now, he could feel the strength of the man as he moved through the crowd, announcing his purpose as that of the King's business.

It had taken him weeks to recover from the beating the musketeer had inflicted on him; his brothers feeding him broth by spoon; and stitching the now permanent scar that ran from the top of his right eye down to his chin, in a ragged pattern. Since the beating, he had experienced debilitating headaches that had altered him in some way. He was the same, but somehow different – causing his brothers to look on him with fear.

When he had gotten better – improved enough to stand on his own- they had pleaded with him to leave and go with them to La Harve, and find passage to somewhere else- away from France.

He had accompanied them to La Harve, but refused the journey, knowing they would be better off without him; that he could not leave France while hatred still festered within him. Even now – when the headaches assailed him – he could think of nothing but revenge and violence. The pain came on him like waves and would not recede until he hurt someone or himself.

Yes, they were better off without him. When he said goodbye to them on the docks; he knew they would not meet again – the best of him lost forever.

Quite, without meaning to, he had stumbled upon this group as they wound their way to Paris – recruiting followers by the hundreds wherever they stopped. He thought, among these people, he had found a way to vent his anger. Emilie's crusade meant nothing to him. Her visions were fanciful; and these people were fanatics; mindless drones following a wisp of a girl to their own detriment.

But for him, her cause had given him an outlet. If he could not destroy the musketeers who had dismantled his life, then perhaps he could do this instead – rain terror down on the Spanish; sanctioned rioting and intimidation by way of the prophet, Emilie of Duras.

But now, things had definitely changed. Here they were – the four of them – but most notably, there sat the boy – the one who had begun his downward dissent into this hell.

Perhaps now he could find a way to have his revenge. He peered through the crowd at Athos and thought of the man's promise to him. Yes, he would find a way, even if he must lose his life to have it.

* * *

d'Artagnan watched Constance leave the noisy tavern and felt sad to see her go. It had been good to stand next to her – talk to her and be close enough to feel the heat of her body.

The day had been a long one. Emilie actually believed her visions were from God, and that she was the chosen one to lead France to victory over Spain. When he told Constance this, she had stared at him in disbelief, wondering at the young woman's sanity – but glad that he shared his work with her; as friends do.

While she stood so close, restraining himself from reaching out to touch her; to declare his true feelings had been incredibly hard. She seemed so sure, so self-contained. He did not want to upset her; and open old wounds, by bringing up things that would estrange her. So, he stood with her gladly and kept his feelings to himself.

The tavern had been unusually crowded tonight; with nowhere for them to sit; but standing next to her amid the noise and closeness wasn't so bad. It was as if they were alone – no one else around mattered. He only had eyes for her.

Talking of Milady and her affair with the King held little interest for him. Milady DeWinter was who she was – a liar, a manipulator and a cold blooded killer. The only person he cared about when it came to her was Athos.

He would not let her hurt him again. That she had the King infatuated was what she did. Eventually she would self-destruct and the King would see her for who she was.

He tried to tell Constance as much, and hoped he had convinced her to let things run its course.

When she left his side, he felt her loss instantly. God, how he did love her; what would he give to tell her so, and to have her reciprocate. But that wasn't going to happen.

He sighed heavily and turned to leave himself; and ran right into Athos standing behind the very pillar where he and Constance had just stood talking. He must have heard everything. d'Artagnan covered his face, "Did you hear all that?"

Athos nodded his assent, his face unreadable. When he asked if he'd like to drink alone, d'Artagnan was surprised, but pleased to hear him answer, "No."

So he tracked down some wine – and by some miracle commandeered a table just abandoned by two patrons – signaling for Athos to, "Come sit here" - waving his arms in triumph and grinning from ear to ear over his coup.

Athos wound his way through the crowd, reached the table and smiled genuinely at d'Artagnan; his eyes crinkled with mirth. Only he could lift his spirits so deftly after hearing Constance's reveal of Anne's latest illusion. And if he were honest with himself, she had been on his mind well before this night – dragging him through painful memories; and interrupting his sleep with murder and betrayal.

Athos was glad to be in the company of his friend; nursing a drink and sitting in companionable silence. Words were not needed between them; so they could each think the same but divergent thoughts in peace.

d'Artagnan looked down into his cup of wine and thought of Constance – how despite all they had been through; her choice to remain with her husband – he still loved her deeply. He pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself to push thoughts of himself aside. He looked across to his friend and noticed his distant gaze staring across the crowded room, and wondered what his thoughts were on Milady. But he would not ask. He would not pry; but instead sit here with him, provide company and if asked give his point of view. He took a sip from his cup and waited patiently.

As Athos twirled his cup, and watched the wine swirl in circles – his mind settled on Anne; who he had promised to kill on sight. But when he did see her again in Evreux, was instead glad to find her alive; grateful she had chosen to save d'Artagnan's life; and surprised to feel the ache in his heart that remembered her beauty; the silk of her hair; and the blush of her lips.

He had turned from her that day – startled at his reaction. Where was his disdain? He should have drawn his sword those months ago and pierced her heart – instead she had pierced his, and even now he was bleeding out from that strike; waiting for her to staunch the flow and save his life as well.

He could not deny it, he felt something for her; and knew it would lead to nothing good. She only ever brought him pain and misery. But there was a time when what they had between them was so special that he had vowed to let nothing ever tear them apart - to love her always. But then he saw Thomas dead at her feet; d'Artagnan used and Constance in her clutches, and he closed in on himself all over again.

When was he to be free of her?

He lifted his cup and downed the wine in one gulp; swiping his mouth with his hand; shaking with emotions he had not experienced in five years. When he looked over to d'Artagnan, the boy stared back at him with a similar look of confusion – a mirror image of his anguish.

There had been a time, not too long ago, when he sought oblivion from more than the bottle to escape such anguish; when he had looked for numbness – to be void of all thought and all feeling when it came to her, his past, and his shortcomings.

Such escape had almost led to his destruction – and he would have gladly let himself be destroyed, if not for Aramis and Porthos, who had found him, loved him, and brought him back to life.

God help him, he had come here tonight to find such numbness, but d'Artagnan had been here; reached out and pulled him from the edge of making a horrible mistake.

Being here in this tavern, at the right time; in the right moment; could not be a coincidence – this boy had saved him once again – and did not know it.

"We should go", they said in unison; pushing their cups to the center of the table; standing and moving away.

When they finally weaved their way out of the crowded tavern – still overflowing with men and women, looking for solace and companionship, d'Artagnan and Athos stood together, took a deep breath and filled their lungs with the fresh evening air of Paris.

Athos then turned fondly to his friend, and in a rare show of affection placed his arm about his shoulders and squeezed lightly, "I want to thank you d'Artagnan for having that drink with me and keeping me from…"

d'Artagnan continued, "drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Yes – thank you too Athos", and he reached up and grabbed his shoulder also.

After a brief shared moment of gratitude, they released each other and walked back toward the garrison, side by side; shoulders bumping lightly – glad to have each other just at the right moment.

d'Artagnan smiled to himself and remembered his silent promise only just hours before, "I won't let her hurt you again you know", he said with conviction; his eyes earnest and words heartfelt.

Athos stopped in his tracks, gazed at his brother, and knew he would try; but wasn't sure his oath was at all possible. "Promise me you will follow your own advice. Leave Anne to her own devices. A scorpion cornered will strike with malice and kill without thought."

d'Artagnan stared hard into Athos' eyes, heard the words and saw his true concern for his safety. Milady was a dangerous woman after all. "I promise", he said aloud, watching Athos' shoulders sag with relief, and silently vowed to keep his own.

* * *

Outside Ambassador Perales' residence, Bertrand felt the bands of constraint lifted from his shoulders as he screamed obscenities, threw rocks, broke windows and threatened the life of that "Spanish dog".

Roaming the streets like feral animals – they had found Perales' lodgings; the goal to make noise, protest, and to frighten the Spanish Ambassador out of France.

Bertrand's headache was receding and this mindless violence felt liberating. But he would only free himself from this maddening pain when he put his hands on someone and beat the life out of them – as he had done the other day, when he and others from the camp had come upon the lone Spanish carriage in the street.

They had commandeered the carriage quickly – his talent for brutality pulling the mob into his vortex. He could still feel the man's fear as he dragged him through the door of the carriage; beat him to the ground; stripped him of his outer garments and mutilated him with his bare hands. Release had been divine; his headache melting away bringing him tranquility.

Now, if they could just get inside the residence, Emilie would no longer have to worry about the Ambassador's threats toward the tent city; its people, and her cause. He would gladly take care of it on her behalf.

And just as he raised his hand to encourage the others to follow him; break down the door and drag Perales out onto the street – the musketeers arrived on horseback – pushing the crowd back, yelling for them to "Get back in the name of the King!"

And then, there he was, right in front of him – he only had to reach out – place his hands around his neck and….

Then a shot rang out from atop the stairs to the home and the boy stepped deftly away – facing the mob; looking right past him as if he were invisible – bellowing above the melee; urging everyone to disperse.

Bertrand lowered his head; moved to the back of the frenzied crowd, the others of Emilie's camp following his lead; sliding away from the mob and heading back to the tent city.

There would be another opportunity – the unrest in Paris would help see to that.

* * *

Emilie of Duras had been arrested. Escorting her by force to the Chatelet and then to her cell had been heartbreaking.

In between her curses aimed at them; she cried out and pleaded for her life; begging not to be burned. Her face flushed and eyes glassy with fear – she called out to God to save her and to strike down the musketeers and King Louis. Sputtering through tears and spittle she screamed and earnestly declared that her "dreams did not lie."

Just yesterday, Constance and the Queen had been released from her camp, unharmed but suffering from the effects of their forced time there; Constance more so – plagued with dreams of the future – the death of King Louis; the Queen in distress; beheadings and chaos. She had told d'Artagnan how real they seemed – vivid – more than dreams. All caused by soup.

When Aramis had brought them safely to the garrison, d'Artagnan had reached for Constance; and hugged her without permission; holding her so close he could feel her eyelashes on his neck. He remembered now, how she had clung to him; weeping into his shoulder – she trembled so hard that he held her the tighter – whispering to her nonsense and then devotions of love.

Eventually she settled down; and let him embrace her until she pulled away of her own accord; swiping away her tears and smiling slightly for his benefit.

And now – here at the prison – she was to stay and help with Emilie; help to care for her as Athos worked to guide her in the expelling of toxins that invaded her body.

Aramis had said he had experience in such matters; and knew how to help. d'Artagnan didn't understand; and when he questioned Aramis, his only comment was, "You must ask Athos. It is his story to tell."

So three days had passed and each day he had paced outside in the prison yard, waiting for word of Constance – Athos and how faired Emilie. Aramis and Porthos kept vigil with him – if not; he would have rushed the cell many times over to see for himself. But Aramis cautioned, "This is tricky work – privacy is warranted here." And so he acquiesced to his judgement and waited.

Now on day four, Aramis entered the cells alone – leaving him and Porthos to wait; and then emerging into the yard walked Athos and Constance – shielding their eyes from the sunlight – looking worn and exhausted.

d'Artagnan moved eagerly toward Constance – saw the dark circles beneath her eyes and touched her face. She grabbed his hand, and leaned her cheek into his warm palm. "All is well", she greeted him.

He squeezed her hand and moved to address his friend – but Constance held him back, "He is beyond tired, and did most of the work in there. Let him go for now." d'Artagnan looked to protest – but saw love in her gaze shining up at him, and could not refuse her. "He needs to be alone for while I think. He understood her pain too well."

d'Artagnan nodded and watched as Porthos spoke softly with Athos; bring him in close and then clapped him on the back – letting him go slowly away from the yard toward the streets of Paris.

"Walk with me?" Constance asked, and together – hand in hand they made their way back toward the palace.

* * *

Hours had passed and the tent city was quiet now. Soon the Red Guard would come, and tear down what was left of Emilie's army of the people.

The musketeers could still hear the echoes of distress from her followers as she first denounced her visions – pleaded with them to abandon the cause and then wept over her mother's lifeless body.

They had swept through the tents, ensuring that everyone had gone; the city now occupied by ghosts, and forgotten visions. The four now sat on their mounts scanning the area – remembering the thousands and how quickly dreams can come to an end.

Aramis dismounted from his horse, "There is something I want to get from Emilie's tent", he announced walking away from his brothers – distressed at toppling her faith, driving him to find something of hers.

d'Artagnan dismounted also, worried at his friend's state of mind – wishing to help in some way, "I'll go with you", and together they walked toward her large quarters.

Athos nodded and understood, "We will meet you beyond the bridge", and he and Porthos set off to wait.

When they reached the flap of her tent – Aramis placed his hand on d'Artagnan's arm to stop his forward movement, "Wait for me here?" he asked and stepped in alone.

Once inside Aramis stood still and let his vision adjust to the darkness and the small amount of light that peered through the seams and from beneath. After some moments, he moved toward where Emilie slept. She had been spartan – not having much in the way of material things – but there left behind on her pallet; he found what he was looking for. Her Bible lay nestled in the tattered blankets left on the straw.

He reached down for it; opened to the cover page, and there written in Emilie's hand – faith is the only armor we need – was scrawled with confidence and purpose. He slammed the book shut – distraught he had taken away her God and her faith. Then suddenly he felt a sharp pain to the back of his skull; and then darkness.

Bertrand stood over the musketeer, holding the hilt of his knife over his victim sensing the bright lights of his headache spinning around him; the pain so intense, he almost leaned over and vomited. He took hold of Aramis' legs and began to drag him further away into the darkness of the tent, his true enemy waiting just outside.

d'Artagnan heard a thump and then noise emitting from the tent, and entered slowly – not wishing to interrupt but wanting to be sure that all was well. He squinted into the darkness and called for his friend. After spinning around to look in all directions he then stood still puzzled – Aramis was nowhere to be seen. How could he have left here without him knowing?

As he turned to leave his legs were suddenly swept out from underneath him and he hit the ground on his back hard enough to lose all the air from his lungs. Wheezing, he looked up, and there stood Bertrand – the heel of his boot now at his throat constricting his air way.

d'Artagnan reached for his foot, and tried to dislodge it from his throat – but felt weakness creeping over him; and his vision blurring. He could feel Bertrand remove his sword and musket from about his waist and throw them further into darkened corners of the tent.

"It is fate that brings you here musketeer, for me to have justice for the hell I'm in now." Bertrand winced and grabbed at his hair pulling with force, and spoke again through clenched teeth, "I have suffered enough by your hand I think."

He then reached down, pulled d'Artagnan to his feet and struck him across the face – causing his cheek to split and flow blood. "A scar for a scar", he growled – placing his hands around his neck and squeezing forcefully.

Stunned, d'Artagnan reached up and tried to pull Bertrand's fingers from his throat – but his vision began to tunnel and he could not breathe – Bertrand's strength growing every second – his face twisted in manic insanity. Gradually, d'Artagan felt his limbs go completely weak. He could no longer struggle; and out of the corner of his eyes saw flashing lights moving toward him. His mind fell to his brothers, and on Athos who would be disappointed that he had not fought harder.

At the bridge waiting for their friends to return, Athos and Porthos both stood as if someone had called urgently for them to come – but the tent city continued to wait silently to be dismantled. There was no noise – only a hushed breath of wind winding its way between the tents causing them to bend and sway.

Athos then took out his musket and took off at a dead run toward Emilie's tent; Porthos close on his heels.

When they entered the tent; Athos held out his weapon toward the man strangling the life from d'Artagnan – he could see Aramis nowhere; Porthos was at his side – his weapon also aimed at the assailant.

Sensing others were in the tent with him, Bertrand released d'Artagnan's throat; pulled his knife; grabbed the boy from behind holding him up with his arm and held his weapon at his throat – pricking the skin just under his ear ready to make quick work of this and rid his brain of its aching agony.

Athos recognized Bertrand immediately and moved slowly toward him, his finger ready to pull the trigger and finish what he had started all those months ago. Only this time d'Artagnan was being held as a shield, and he was not sure he could take his shot without harming him as well.

But then Bertrand made his move; blood flowed down d'Artagan's neck – Porthos screamed and Athos shot him between the eyes – brain matter and blood rained down over d'Artagnan as he fell boneless to the ground still wrapped in Bertrand's arm.

Aramis awoke to the sharp retort of a firearm; Porthos screaming and Athos standing rigid with his musket held out before him unmoving – his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. He pushed himself to his feet and saw Porthos extricating d'Artagnan from the arms of Bertrand – covered in blood.

He moved toward them – his head pounding with every footstep – falling to his knees listening and watching for any sign of life; and there it was a slight wheezing – d'Artagnan fighting to draw in a breath.

He gazed into Porthos' eyes, "He's alive. Help me get him on the pallet. We need water; cloth and my bag." Porthos nodded; lifted d'Artagnan from the ground – and placed him gently on the nearby bedding. Aramis quickly taking a seat at his side pressed his hand over the wound at his neck – already slick with blood trying to stem the tide.

When he rose to get the other things Aramis would need – he saw that Athos had already exited the tent. He pulled left behind bedding from cots laid out on the ground, and threw them Aramis' way; then raced from the tent for Aramis' horse and the supplies he needed.

There running toward him was Athos with a bucket full of water from the stream – heading back into the tent. When he re-entered and placed the medic's bag on the pallet he saw Athos standing over Bertrand – his sword in his hand ready to kill him all over again.

Aramis nodded at him, "I have this" and looked toward their friend with apprehension. Porthos took the cue and moved slowly toward Athos with his hands held out in submission knowing that the man before him was not the brother he knew at this moment.

Aramis studied the injury before him and knew he had to work fast. The wound at d'Artagnan's neck was dire; and the boy was losing blood fast. He cleaned it out as well as he could with the water brought in by Athos, took out his needle and thread and began the task of closing the scar. d'Artagnan moaned at the pull and he stilled his hand, and watched as he forcibly willed his eyes open.

"Do not try and speak", he commanded. "Let me help you and all will be well."

d'Artagnan blinked his assent; and grabbed at the front of his coat. "We are all okay", he answered returning to his task – conquering his own blurred vision to make neat tiny loops. "Try and keep still for me."

Off to the side Aramis could hear Porthos trying to break through the haze Athos seemed to be caught in. "You can put that away now my friend. He is dead already. You have saved him; and now Aramis is going to fix him up good as new."

Athos could feel his grip tighten on his weapon and his heart harden. If he could – he would will the man before him to rise up from the ground so he could stab him; then choke him; then beat him to death.

Then he heard a groan from the pallet, reason flooded his senses and he came to himself – relaxing his grip on the hilt of his sword; and looked to Porthos hearing him speak words, "He needs to see you Athos. Come and sit with him."

Athos took a breath; and the tent snapped into focus – Aramis leaning over d'Artagnan; his legs moving about trying to retreat from the pain.

He walked briskly then to the pallet, knelt at his side and grabbed hold of d'Artagnan's hand and placed another on his leg stilling it with his touch. Athos studied Aramis' face – saw the pain etched behind his eyes, "He will be alright. Just hold him still so I can finish."

Porthos then grabbed another cloth; kneeled at the head of the pallet, and staunched the blood as he bent over to finish.

d'Artagnan held tight to Athos' hand, then slowly drifted down into unconsciousness.

* * *

When d'Artagnan woke again, it was to Athos sitting at his side, washing blood from his hair; face and neck. He searched his friend's face trying to get a gauge on what happened; but it was unreadable. He remembered nothing beyond Bertrand strangling the life out of him. He frowned remembering flashes of light – he should be dead.

d'Artagnan grabbed a hold of Athos arm and stilled it from removing the blood on his face, but when he looked at the cloth he noticed something else, that was not blood; and pierced Athos with a stare that asked for an explanation. Only Athos was not talking; so he tried. But when he went to speak he could not utter a sound – and held a hand to his throat perplexed.

"Your throat is swollen. Aramis says your voice will be out of commission for a while. You are to rest."

d'Artagnan frowned deeper – demanding to know what happened; grasping Athos' shirt and pulling him down closer.

Athos sighed and placed the cloth in the bucket at his feet. "Bertrand is dead", he spoke plainly, "and all is well. Aramis took a knock on the head, but has recovered enough to oversee the Red Guards in their duties; and keep Porthos from enticing them into a game of cards. The tent city is coming down as we speak. We leave for home within the hour."

d'Artagnan relaxed; closed his hand in a fist and tapped it gently against Athos chest at his heart. Athos grabbed it and held on tight. "Your welcome d'Artagnan", he whispered softly.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review as your comments, thoughts and ideas mean a great deal. I really enjoy looking for the missing; hidden moments in the Musketeer episodes and hope you like my imaginings. Thank you to everyone who has already read; posted a review; have decided to follow and have favorited this story.


	4. Chapter 4

Conclusions

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong – no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both?

* * *

Chapter 4: The Way Back

d'Artagnan felt an inferno rising up in his body as he ran full out through the woods with King Louis dragging on the chain between them.

His lungs were burning, his legs ached and his heart raced with anxiety and fear. They had to get away – find sanctuary among the trees; find a way to shake the human traffickers pursuing them through the woods. He could hear the steady cadence of their hooves beating the ground as they gained purchase.

But the chain got heavier; and heavier, and weighed his ankle down so that its cumbersome bulk slowed him and the King to a trot; until they were tripping over their own feet and tumbling down, over roots; and rock; and into darkness.

In the distance, through the black ink, he could hear men screaming – begging for mercy – as gun fire erupted and Gus bore down on them yelling to, "Kill them all!" Bodies of helpless, tortured men fell over him, covered in blood; and the blank stare of Pepin gazed at him – accusing him – then pleading with him to save him for Laura's sake.

Then through a dark tunnel of rock, Gus barreled toward him on horseback, his sword held out to pierce his heart; screaming a battle cry of hatred. He reached up – pulled him down and impaled him for Pepin.

Out of that darkness; Bertrand pounced – grabbing the sword from his brother's chest – holding him about the throat- spitting in his face; growling "a scar for a scar" – squeezing the air from his body until bright lights sparkled out of the corner of his eyes; causing him to think – he should be dead. Suddenly, there was Athos beyond the lights – yelling for him to let him go – he would find his way back.

d'Artagnan sat straight up – grabbing at his neck; pulling on the collar of his shirt; choking and sputtering with tears streaming from his eyes - Bertrand was here – trying to kill him. He attempted to call out for help, but his voice was gone.

And then there was Aramis – crouching before him – holding his face between his hands; wiping his tears from his eyes and cheeks; encouraging him to "breathe – slow – steady."

He grabbed hold of Aramis' wrists and held on tight; willing himself to get a hold of his senses – the cool night air finally dousing the heat of his skin. "Do you hear me? Do you know where you are?" he heard Aramis ask – searching his eyes for recognition.

d'Artagnan looked carefully about his surroundings. The Forest of Evreux began to dissipate and the tents of the people's army faded gradually away – and little by little morphed into their small camp fire; Porthos snoring nearby to the left; and Treville standing over by the creek with their horses – warily looking in his direction.

d'Artagnan nodded in the affirmative; and felt his ears burn with embarrassment. He had thought dreams of Evreux over, but apparently not. He swallowed hard – hoping that when he opened his mouth – words could be heard.

Lately, speaking had become hit or miss with him. There were times – like this one – when he wanted to speak, or answer a question, and all he could feel were Bertrand's hands pressing down on his neck, closing around his throat – refusing him sound.

It had taken weeks for him to regain his speech after Bertrand's attack – the swelling and the scar at his neck finally reducing and healing enough for him to drink and eat without pain, and to draw sound without discomfort. Not only had the recovery time been a source of agony; but had also been a nuisance – his ability to communicate compromised, giving way to undue frustration. He wanted to get past it, but the episodes of loss of speech still plagued him, as did his disturbing dreams.

When his voice would leave – sometimes it would be for only a moment. He would swallow; take a breath, and it would return, as if nothing happened. Sometimes his voice would leave him for a few hours. Then, he would keep busy – volunteer to muck out the stables; wash down tables for Serge; or practice sparring with Athos – where words were not needed.

And then there were the times when it would last for days – when he could not keep it to himself; and the others would accept his silence.

But now – he took in a breath; and frowned, concentrating hard – hoping against hope that the pressure would be lifted from his neck, and his throat would open up to give him his speech, "We are on our way to Pinon", he answered with a rasp.

Aramis smiled and was clearly relieved, "Yes", he nodded, pleased with the answer and to hear d'Artagnan's voice.

d'Artagnan released his vice like grip on Aramis' wrists and flopped back down to the ground, exasperated at his weaknesses – only to find himself staring into the flames; and thought – morning could not come soon enough. Sleep would evade him now – worry for Athos gaining purchase as each hour passed.

Athos had been missing in action for days now. He and the others had combed every tavern, searched everywhere they could think of back in Paris, with no success – until finally they had rummaged through his things at his lodgings and found unopened letters from his tenants begging for his help in Pinon.

So, with no other clues to follow; and hoping they had guessed right to his whereabouts – they were now halfway there, resting for the night before heading for the village in the morning.

d'Artagnan sat up – leaned forward and examined the flames – touching the scar at his neck. He didn't remember receiving the injury – but could not escape its effect on him and on his brothers.

He knew Athos had saved his life – but not how. No matter how many times or what way he asked – Aramis and Porthos were closed mouth on the subject. Athos would only tell him that Bertrand was dead by his hand and would not elaborate. He never saw the body; and was never privy to what lengths his brother had gone to save him; only that afterward – it had driven him to late night tavern visits to drink alone – and on some occasions close to oblivion.

Rubbing absently at his scar – he could sense that Athos was in some sort of trouble. Tomorrow, they would find him in Pinon – he was certain of it.

Aramis watched closely as d'Artagnan rubbed at the scar just under his right ear, and asked "Does it still hurt?"

d'Artagnan paused, and dropped his hand to his lap, "no" he answered. It just reminded him of how much he owed his brothers, and how grateful he was to be alive. It also had him wondering what Athos could have possibly done that he was unwilling to share; and found offensive enough that he would drink himself to incoherence.

Aramis read his body language and answered as if d'Artagnan had spoken aloud, "You came pretty close to death you know. We all understand if you feel a little uncertain."

d'Artagnan thought, yes and there was that – the flashing lights. He should be dead.

Aramis then asked cautiously, "And your voice?"

d'Artagnan shrugged – not sure what to say. It was a topic he kept to himself, like his worrisome dreams.

"Dr. Lemay says everything looks fine. There's not a physical reason why you lose your speech. He thinks with time – these episodes you experience will diminish and eventually go away. Like your scar."

d'Artagnan nodded, lay down and turned his back to Aramis and the flames; unwilling to speak on this – because if he did; his mind would flood with flashing lights, loss of air, and death. Is this what little Laura was going through; her voice and her father – stolen from her – lost and alone?

Aramis shook his head and kicked at the flames; causing the kindling to loosen, fall and send sparks into the night air. d'Artagnan and Athos were much alike when it came to talking out emotions and feelings. d'Artagnan only shared willingly his love for the musketeers, his brothers and Constance. When hard things needed to be said, it took patience and fortitude. So he spoke to d'Artagnan's back, resigned to be in this for the long haul.

"Yes, get some rest d'Artagnan. Tomorrow we will find Athos, and find out what's going on in Pinon".

d'Artagnan nodded, shut his eyes tight and prayed that all would be well tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning saw the weather good for quick travel. The sun was shining, the air was cool; and so the four rode hard to reach Pinon by midday with Treville in front, leading the way. d'Artagnan was glad the Captain had decided to come with them – his steadying presence did much to keep them all in check.

And though he had been stripped of his captaincy – d'Artagnan still thought of him as such; and would see him as nothing else. It had not taken much to persuade him to join them in the search. He had protested at first, but they could see right through him. He loved Athos too.

The closer they got to Pinon – the more anxious d'Artagnan became; his thoughts flying in all directions. He could feel that Athos was in more than just trouble now, but in danger - and the sooner they reached their destination the better. The others seemed to think the same – all riding hard – no conversation between them – their only communication a steady pounding of hooves all in sync with the same rhythms, speed and power.

When they finally reached the outskirts of the small village, they could hear up ahead, the echo of a single gunshot; people screaming; and pounding hoof beats riding away. As they cleared the bend in the road – there stood Athos before them; hands tied, looking bloody and worn out – but very much alive. It seemed they had arrived just in time.

The chaos surrounding Athos was deafening – villagers yelling at the retreating men on horseback, screaming for them to "let Jeanne go"; weeping neighbors clinging to each other; and then crying with relief at the sight of the musketeers.

d'Artagnan heaved a sigh of relief himself, his fears of Athos dead now vanished – leaving him light – feeling better; only now his voice was gone again, and he could not express it. All he could do was to sit atop his horse – smiling with unabashed happiness – as Porthos released his bonds; Aramis greeted him with a warm hug; and Treville shook his hand – already asking what took place.

Amidst the swirling dust – distraught villagers; and his overwhelming surprise at seeing his friends – Athos looked to d'Artagnan atop his horse and was pleased to see him. He frowned a little and wondered at the boy's silent but heartfelt smile in his greeting – could sense the relief; but then understood.

He walked stiffly toward d'Artagnan's horse – grabbed the reins, then looked up at his friend – touched his knee and squeezed his reassurances; letting him know that everything was alright. Tiredly he walked away toward a small grove of trees, exhausted; ready to escape the weighted pressures of responsibility his title bore him – and the painful memories here that clung to him like mud.

And of course, they all argued with him about his duty to these people – but it was d'Artagnan who had gathered himself to make quite the speech about Anne's influence over him that turned the tide. He reached for the scar on d'Artagnan's neck and lightly touched it with his thumb; took a deep breath; and resigned himself to helping these people.

There was no point in denying it – if not for d'Artagnan, he would get on his horse and ride from here and never look back.

He had left these people and this life behind years ago; and had wished not to return. To have found his way back here was tearing him apart. He hoped he would not lose his mind.

Athos studied d'Artagnan closely; the man's faith in him to always do the right thing pulling at him with pride and guilt. But he was right – he could hate this place and its heartbreaking memories; but these people didn't deserve this harassment and uncertainty.

He would try his best to not disappoint him; but right now he needed to get away – put space between them, and think. So he walked away, mounted his horse and rode out of the village – letting his past engulf him.

d'Artagnan watched disheartened as Athos rode off without them – unsure if someone should follow; try to force him back – to convince him where his responsibilities lay. But then Porthos gripped his shoulder, "You have done it. He will be back and with a plan."

d'Artagnan looked to Porthos confused. What had he done? Drive him away? The man had just ridden away from them without a backward glance.

Porthos chuckled and rubbed d'Artagnan's head fondly, "You underestimate your effect on him", and then left his side; walked toward Aramis and the innkeeper to plan his daughter's rescue.

* * *

When Athos returned and spoke of weapons at the estate – d'Artagnan wondered at Porthos' words – but grinned – happy to see his friend had returned; ready to fight against injustice – just as he knew he would.

And when he was asked to accompany him to retrieve the firearms he practically ran to the cart, climbed aboard, and commandeered the reins. "I will drive", he announced, moving with the swiftness of youth.

Athos moved more slowly, and grimaced over the many aches and pains all over his body. He sat gingerly at d'Artagnan's side, and wished he had the energy and stamina of the very young – the rough treatment he received at the hands of the Baron taking a toll.

It had been a long, long few days, and he hoped d'Artagnan would sense that he was not up to having conversation. His talk with Catherine was enough to last him for a while. To find her here – damaged; humiliated and still grieving for a way of life long lost because of him made him tired and weary.

Here was yet another person he had let down and abandoned. Just as being back here had elicited visions of his past; Catherine had dredged up emotions he wanted to keep locked away permanently – for when released, that dark part of him would be set free as if from a cage and given permission to act without restraint.

That dark place in him was so deep that it frightened him. It frightened him because it lived within him – hiding – and when let loose took over his faculties and left him wondering what he had done and what cruelty he was capable of.

That place held his blind rage for Anne's murderous nature and her betrayal; it held his disgust for his own weaknesses and addictions for losing himself to artificial numbness; his capability to exact harsh revenge and to kill without remorse - when it came to protecting his own.

He looked to the young man beside him, who was loyal to a fault and could not fathom what d'Artagnan saw in him. The faith that he, Aramis and Porthos placed in him was the only light keeping him from giving in to that darkness. If he were to know of his hidden place – would he still think well of him? Aramis and Porthos knew of this flaw in him, and loved him anyway. But d'Artagnan was young; and the young sometimes found it difficult to understand flaws in people they loved and looked up to.

He scrutinized the scar at d'Artagnan's throat and remembered the rage he felt as he ended Bertrand's life. He had taken aim without hesitation; and blew his head off.

He would keep what he had done from d'Artagnan for as long as he could – not wanting to witness his look of loathing; for surely he killed that day with impenitence. But one day, d'Artagnan would know him – then what?

Athos rubbed his eyes and pushed his hair from his face – and buried such thoughts to the back of his mind and behind the locked door. Right now, they must concentrate on gathering weapons and getting the residence of Pinon ready to confront Baron de Louviers.

* * *

d'Artagnan sat contently next to his brother, atop the buggy, on their way back from the estate. He could tell that Athos was done with conversation; and that his thoughts jumped from the past to the present giving him much to think about – if the scowl on his face was any indication.

But all in all, he was glad that Athos had found it in his heart to help his people. The family armory had provided them with enough weapons, ammunition and gun powder to put up an adequate fight against the Baron. His brief, silent vigil over his brother's burial place spoke volumes to him – and he would not intrude.

He stole a glance in Athos' direction and could read how disturbed he was to be back here in this place, which must haunt him still. The last time he was here, the man's home had been burning down around them; and they had barely escaped the inferno with their lives. That woman had meant to kill him that night; and vexed him still.

He wished he knew what to say to help him.

Athos' declaration that he knew nothing of him had him wondering – but such statements would not push him away. They had been through too much together – overcome hurdles most people would not attempt to cross; and of course, the future held obstacles neither one of them could foresee.

He swore to himself – there was nothing Athos could have done; or would do that would ever have him turn away – nothing.

The man meant everything to him. If anything should happen…. He didn't want to think about it. Perhaps he would survive it – as he had with his father, but then he had turned to Athos, who had filled that void and picked up where his father had left off – guiding him through all things; and leading him back from unspeakable grief.

He took a deep breath to clear his mind. He must think on this another time. Right now, they had a battle to get ready for; and he would not let his brother down.

* * *

The battle at Pinon had been terrible and fierce. The people – determined to fight for the land now theirs – given to them freely by their Comte, fought with desperation.

d'Artagnan looked around, breathing hard after fighting off four men himself - pleased to see Baron Renard's men fleeing away in retreat - he boldly stalked after them; pointing to the tree line where they should run to cower – adrenaline flowing through him like lightening.

The tenants were stunned, shocked and shaking with relief that it was over. They had won. They were now free to choose their own destinies.

Everyone had done well in battle; but the evidence of its aftermath was high. Many men, women, and children had lost their lives – their shattered bodies positioned boneless, bleeding in the dirt. The red colors of Baron Renard's men also held the stain of their blood; their cost for loyalty and greed for another man's land ending in death.

He saw that Aramis, Porthos, and the Captain had survived their battles without injury as well, and there before them all stood Athos, towering over Edmond de Louviers; his sword at his throat ready to put an end to the life of the man who had orchestrated this needless skirmish that took so many innocent lives.

And then Athos looked toward d'Artagnan; caught his eye as if measuring what he should do at this moment. Remembering that dark place and wondering, if he did this thing – ran Edmond through – would he recover and be himself again. Would he be able to find the way back? This place – his home – had taken so much of his soul already; would he let it take more?

And before anyone could react – Catherine was speaking – holding her gun on Athos, forcing him to lay down his weapons. d'Artagnan and the others moved to step closer – but Athos held out his hand to stop them and tried to placate her; smooth over her humiliation and bruised ego.

Then everything moved so fast.

Edmond reached for a hidden knife within his armor, rose up and lunged for Athos striking at his leg – blood spurting out like a fountain; Catherine fired her weapon; then Edmond and Athos fell to the ground – still, silent, unmoving.

All around them Pinon came to a halt; time suspended; sound sucked away as if through a vacuum – d'Artagnan screamed but could not hear himself; running toward his friend, panic in his heart.

Then Athos struggled to his feet feeling d'Artagnan rush into his arms holding him tight – lifting him to stand; leaving Edmond to lay shivering on the ground; the Baron racing to his side; falling to his knees; cradling his boy in his arms – guiding him to die with dignity – a fatal wound to his chest evident.

d'Artagnan could not speak; his voice gone – so he held onto Athos tighter still – silently thanking God that he was at least on his feet. But he felt Athos wince from his embrace; and when he pulled back saw blood covering his hand and the white of Athos' shirt, spilling down onto his pants – where blood also cascaded from a wound at his leg. Edmond's thrust had fallen true at his thigh, and Catherine's aim had found his chest.

He turned to call for Aramis to help – but nothing came; his eyes widening in terror. Athos reached for his neck and pulled him in close; whispering in his ear, "Steady." But all he could think was that his friend was shot; and that there was so much blood. Suddenly Athos tilted toward him – his knees giving way; no longer able to hold his weight; and they both made a slow descent to the ground – he, trying to hold Athos up and failing.

When they both hit the ground, Athos was in his arms unconscious. It was rain; and mud – and death all over again.

d'Artagnan swallowed hard around the lump in his throat; and tried to speak – to beg Athos to stay. He shook him in his arms trying to impart the urgency that he wake up – that Aramis was here also and would help him.

When he looked up, there stood Aramis standing over him– yelling for Treville and Porthos to lift Athos and bring him to the tavern – but when they reached for him to bring him away from his hold he would not let go; only held fast with all the strength he had. He could feel Athos' breath on his neck and knew if he let go, he would die.

But then Porthos was pulling Athos away – and when he gazed up he pleaded, "please, please" - but no sound passed his lips; so Porthos wasn't able to hear him begging to leave him as he was – here safe in his arms.

Then Captain Treville commanded, "You must let him go", and was lifting Athos up and away. Before he understood what was happening, he and Porthos had Athos between them – each holding an arm and leg beneath the knees – his head lolling about, landing on Treville's shoulder; his body uncoordinated and limp – his face pale as death.

d'Artagnan watched them carry him away, and beat the ground with his fist, screaming soundless fury – tense anger flowing through his body ready to strike.

He looked around the decimated square for Catherine – but she was gone – having slipped away during the confusion. Nearby, the Baron held onto his son, weeping – ignoring his surviving men, who reached for Edmond – ready to retreat back to their own estate before the Comte's people and the musketeers decided to arrest them.

All around him villagers searched the grounds, clinging to their lost children; parents; spouses – sorrow and wailing echoing and bouncing off the scorched buildings.

Seeing this distress - d'Artagnan stood to his feet; retrieved Athos' sword and ran toward the tavern to be with his family.

* * *

When he entered the tavern, Athos was laid out on one of the dining tables – Aramis cutting away at his pant leg, to get to his wound. Porthos was removing his shirt; lifting him gently to pull the shirt over his head and guide his arms from the sleeves. He then laid him down with such care - d'Artagnan felt tears well up in his eyes. He swiped them away and moved closer – clutching Athos' sword, uncertain how to help.

Then Jeanne was at his side, removing the sword from his grip; handing him a bucket of water and a cloth – and pushing him forward. Aramis called to him, "Yes, d'Artagnan – clean the wound at his side, and I'll clean out the wound here."

Porthos and Treville nodded; and took positions at Athos' shoulders and legs ready to hold him down if the need arose.

d'Artagnan moved swiftly, and sat at Athos' side; and began to gently wash away blood from the wound that scored a path from his chest to beneath his right arm pit. He saw no bullet hole, and upon examination, felt no bullet beneath the skin – and when Aramis looked to him with a question in his eye – he shook his head no.

Aramis took a deep breath – "Then here at the leg, is the danger", he announced to everyone. Then Jeanne was there, standing at Aramis' side passing to him the needle and thread.

He took them from her, and looked to his brothers, "Hold him steady", he urged, "He will feel this".

d'Artagnan stood up to gain leverage, and held Athos at the shoulder; Porthos his other. Treville stood at the leg to be stitched with Aramis and held the lower part of his leg tight in his grip. The innkeeper stepped up to help and held onto the other. When everyone was in position, Aramis leaned over the gaping knife wound at his thigh, and began – his hands steady and sure.

At first d'Artagnan thought Athos might remain unconscious and feel nothing; as the first several stitches were placed with no movement or awareness from his friend; but then suddenly, Athos eyes were wide open – unseeing and his brow creased with pain.

d'Artagnan was not prepared for Athos' strength, when he lashed out and caught him across the mouth with his fist; sending him reeling to the floor. He jumped back up to his position; licking blood from his lip; holding on for all his worth – not willing to let Athos hurt himself.

"Are you okay?" Porthos called to him – struggling with Athos on the other side of him; giving his full weight to keep the man down.

d'Artagnan nodded back at Porthos – gritting his teeth with determination.

This went on for quarter of an hour – a battle of wills, Aramis wasn't sure they could keep up; and he had nothing to give him for such agony.

Athos growled from deep down; his back arched from the table – fighting against their restraint; the pain in his leg too much for him to process.

Aramis wiped the sweat from his brow and continued on – ignoring the groans of pain; the jostling and the heat in the room. He could do this. If not – Athos would bleed out right here on the table – and that was not an option. His hands were true – that wasn't the problem. "Keep him still" – he grunted to his friends; piercing skin within the wound – knowing this would take hours.

He looked up from his work, and stared Porthos straight in the eyes - could they hold onto him for even an hour? Understanding, Porthos yelled over the anguished groans, "Should I hit him?"

But then d'Artagnan laid his forehead down and pressed it against Athos' arm and squeezed tight, willing his friend to be still; to be helped – to stop moving; to find his way back.

And there, unexpectedly, Athos took in a shuddering breath; opened his eyes - and looked about him with discernment. Standing above him was Aramis – a study in concentration; hands soaked in blood – stitching his leg; the pain of it agonizing – and almost unbearable. Porthos, noticing he was awake, pushed the hair from his face, smiled down at him and released his grip – nodding with relief. The tide had turned – he knew Athos' strength; and now that he was aware, would bear up well under such pain without the need for restraint.

Athos looked down at the top of d'Artagnan's head, resting at his arm, and reached to ruffle his hair. Feeling movement, d'Artagnan sat up; looked to his friend – grabbed for his hand and held on tight.

"That won't be necessary", he answered to Porthos, holding on tighter.

* * *

Sometime later – Athos opened his eyes to find himself still in the tavern, laid out on top of one of the tables, where he had endured hours of Aramis stitching the wound on his thigh.

The pain of it had been enormous – but he had not wanted to falter in d'Artagnan's eyes and so held on to the boy's hand until he could no longer endure it and passed out.

Now, looking about the large open space, he could see that darkness had descended; a fire had been placed in the hearth – giving the room an orange glow, and enough light to see that a blanket now covered him, with a straw pillow at his head. Not too far from him, Aramis and Porthos lay asleep atop a table of their own – snoring lightly he guessed from exhaustion.

Around the room lay other injured men, women and children – on tables; across benches or on the floor atop makeshift pallets.

Next to him, in a chair, sat Treville; watching him carefully as he took in all that was around him.

"How do you feel?" Treville asked, with true concern in his voice. At one point during the procedure, he had been fearful they would lose this extraordinary young man, and it pained him. He had watched the gift of Aramis' steady hands; Porthos' gentle encouragement, and d'Artagnan's fierce determination and love work a miracle. The three men were truly a study in loyalty and courage – he was glad to call them friends.

Athos thought on his Captain's question, and answered truthfully, "Tired, and thirsty."

Treville stood from his seat; retrieved a cup of water from the bar and returned to Athos' side; helping to lift his head to drink; encouraging him with, "Small sips." When he emptied the cup, Treville helped him to lay back to rest – resuming his seat at his side.

As he moved to find a comfortable positon – Athos felt a weight at his arm, hip and leg. He looked down to see d'Artagnan lying next to him – on his side, facing him – his warm body breathing heavy and even against his arm.

He gazed up at Treville, apprehension fluttering in his gut, "How is he?" he asked- remembering the terror on d'Artagnan's face in the square.

"Afraid you were going to die", he sighed deeply, "and hasn't spoken a word since you were hurt."

Athos looked down at his sleeping friend; his eyelids growing heavy with fatigue – closing on their own accord – his body shutting down quickly forcing him to rest.

d'Artagnan squirmed closer; and latched onto his arm holding fast.

Leaning over them, Treville gripped his shoulder, "Rest son – we are all here with you." And trusting his Captain, Athos drifted down into slumber.

* * *

A few hours later, Athos woke to see d'Artagnan sitting atop the table at his side; with his hand on his chest – his eyes closed feeling its rise and fall. The warm glow from the fire and the light emitting from the many candles strewn about the tavern, gave the room a surreal quality of peace.

He watched him sitting quietly beside him like that for some moments, reluctant to disturb this quiet interval – amazed at how young d'Artagnan looked. After a while, he cleared his throat and spoke softly as not to startle him, "I'm alright now, d'Artagnan, and there is nothing to worry about."

d'Artagnan opened his eyes and smiled down at him, removing his hand- embarrassed to be caught checking to be sure Athos was still breathing, but glad to finally see him awake. He had been afraid; truly terrified that his brother would die.

Athos looked up at his friend, and remembered what Treville had shared with him earlier, "How are you?" he asked; hoping that after some time he had regained his voice.

d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, surprised Athos would ask about his welfare after what he had just been through.

He shrugged his shoulders and bowed his head; hair falling across his features, hiding his face and his worries; and moved to slide from the table to find a chair to sit on.

Athos could feel his reserves waning – pain and weariness pulling him down; and he had to know d'Artagnan was well before he succumbed to sleep once again.

He caught hold of his arm, to have him stay; reached up and pushed the hair from his eyes; sliding his palm over the side of his face to cup his cheek; lowered his hand to his throat – and felt for the scar below his ear. He noticed the split lip and frowned, a memory prickling at his consciousness – but asked again with more urgency, "Are you well?"

d'Artagnan felt the warmth of his hand, stared intently into Athos' eyes with true resolve; shored up his nerve; and answered, "I am now."

Athos closed his eyes and felt his body relax, once again, drawing him down into a healing sleep, "That is good", he countered, smiling slightly – glad to see the terror gone from d'Artagnan's face.

* * *

Well, I think I may be winding down with these collections of new conclusions; and d'Artagnan/Athos moments - to some of the season two episodes. But still have a few chapters left in me, I think. Sincerely hope you are enjoying them so far.

All in all, thank you so much for reading these. Please leave a review – as I love reading your comments, and thoughts.

Thank you to everyone who has already reviewed, favorited and are following this story. To those guests who have reviewed - as I am unable to respond to your thoughtful comments – I want to thank you for your continued support.


	5. Chapter 5

Conclusions

By MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong – no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both?

* * *

Hello everyone! Pinon had many stories to tell – so the musketeers stayed just a little bit longer.

I hope you enjoy! Thank you. Please review!

Chapter 5: Welcome Recovery

Monsieur Baudouin stepped from the door of his inn and looked with pride out into the square. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and placed his hat on his head with purpose; and breathed in air as a new man – an independent man – a land owner.

The noon day sun was high today; the atmosphere heavy with heat, humidity and hope. All around him the residents of Pinon went about their now daily routine of rebuilding their small village. If fear, intimidation and death would not stop them from gaining their independence; then a little heat was easy enough to bear through their restoration.

The noisiness of it; the business of it all was comforting and much needed. Pinon was going to be better than before. He scanned the faces of his neighbors and a twinge of sadness filled his heart - the loss here had been immense; but the gain equally significant. They were a strong people, and would survive this.

Thanks to the Comte, they were now an independent and self-sufficient people. He took in all of Pinon before him. He would not let this go to waste – he would not disappoint the Comte de la Fere.

For the past two weeks Monsieur Baudouin had taken to walking through the village this time of day to see for himself how things were faring with repairs and with everyone's mental state. He would leave the inn for his daughter – Jeanne – to keep an eye on, and greet his neighbors – one by one – determined to keep their spirits lifted over their shared harrowing experience.

It was true – they had won the war over the Baron for the right to keep their own land, and be masters of their own destinies – but the everyday battles were just beginning.

Looking about – he could see that things were improving – but now that their lost ones were buried, the church needed the roof repaired; doors taken off hinges to create the barricade needed to be replaced; the homeless needed to be housed – crops replanted – the orphans cared for and people fed.

The task before them was daunting – but it could be done.

As Monsieur Baudouin stepped onto the porch, he noticed the Comte sitting beneath the awning, getting much needed sun and fresh air. For two weeks – he had lain upstairs in one of the rooms - fighting fever and weakness, due to loss of blood and infection.

It had been touch and go for the Comte, and for those two weeks, all of Pinon assembled in the chapel each day, before the sun would set, to pray for his recovery. Then a few days ago, Monsieur Aramis had announced to them all that the Comte had made it through the worst of it and now just needed to rest and heal.

Everyone had spontaneously erupted into song and Father Elie led them in a fierce prayer of thankfulness.

Monsieur Baudouin stepped further onto the porch, to approach the Comte, and greet him good morning. He was always unsure how to act around him – ingrained deference hard to shake.

For the past few days, the Comte had been relegated to sitting in front of the inn – quietly watching the village work to rebuild – a daily ritual he could see the Comte was already becoming weary of.

Each day - he watched from the porch his fellow musketeers take part in assisting neighbors with some needed task or repair; running an errand or tending to wounds still not healed from the battle.

His unrest was evident.

Monsieur Baudouin could read the signs clearly – the longing look to move about, the shaking leg and fingers drumming at his thighs were dead give a ways.

He looked to the Comte and smiled fondly. He had known this young man his whole life and remembered seeing him as a child with the same mannerisms of impatience.

He laughed softly to himself – thinking back to that time and place – little Olivier walking stoically behind his father; with such a serious face; his leg shaking, just as it was now, causing him to shift from foot to foot; itching to run and play – but held back by his birthright and the stern looks from the man whose shadow he dared not step from.

Olivier had been such a quiet boy – a reticent adolescent – and then a reserved young man; who left home six years ago under a cloud of scandal – his wife hanged – bitter and haunted. It saddened him that he was not happy.

As he approached the Comte – he removed his hat, bowed his head – as he had been taught – and spoke with great respect, "My lord – good morning."

Athos lifted his head as Monsieur Baudouin stood before him, his head bowed – waiting to be addressed. He squint his eyes from the blinding sunlight and annoyance, "I have asked you Monsieur – on several occasions to stop bowing and to call me Athos."

Monsieur Baudouin chuckled and replaced his hat on his head, "Old habits die hard Comte. I fear you will always be my lord to me."

Athos attempted to stare the man down – but was unsuccessful – as Monsieur Baudouin seemed immune to his tactic, and sighed with resignation for now asking instead, "You walk again today. May I join you?"

Monsieur Baudouin tilted his head to the side, considering his Comte – his eyes twinkling, "And what does Monsieur Aramis say about this?"

Athos frowned, "He has left for the day to make rounds of his own, I believe; and has no say. I make my own rules sir and wish to join you."

Monsieur Baudouin smiled within – some things never change. Little Olivier was still there amidst the anger. "Then do sir", he said aloud, and gestured for Athos to stand and lead the way.

Athos nodded and stood cautiously from his chair. When on his feet, he smiled slightly with satisfaction, "We walk together Monsieur – side by side", and with a slow pace walked from the porch into the square.

Athos breathed in deep the fresh air – letting it fill his lungs and clear his mind. It was good to be up – about – and moving. He felt an ache in his thigh and a slight pull at his chest – but what he was aware of most was the tiredness and weakness in his limbs and in his lungs. Exercise was what he needed. He would deal with Aramis' concerns later – because lying around – being inactive – had him thinking too much.

And thinking too much about his life without alcohol to dull his senses to it; left him feeling raw with emotions – emotions better left unexplored. When he thought too hard – dark moods would come; and he did not need that now. So – better to be moving and kept busy.

Two weeks ago – he almost died. In similar instances, over the past five years – he had become to welcome the knowledge that his life would end in battle – any battle – one battle was as good as another.

His life for hers – that's how he thought of it. He had taken her life and so would gladly let battle take his. He had not purposefully wished to die; but if it happened – so be it – it was what he deserved.

But now things had changed. Anne was alive – he could not find it within himself to hate her; and Pinon was morphing, transforming before his eyes – rising up from dust and ash to redefine itself. Perhaps he should do the same.

For such a long time his purpose in living had been centered on being a musketeer and self-destruction. If not for Aramis and Porthos, his lack of self-preservation and indifference would have seen his pension for death fulfilled years ago. Then, living turned into restoring his honor – using King and country as an excuse. Now, living had reshaped itself into being part of a family – his small family of four, who he allowed two weeks ago to pull him from the edge of death – and he was glad.

Across the square d'Artagnan's laughter bounced its way over the clatter of hammers; greetings and braying horses. Honing into that sound – Athos searched and found him helping to place a new wheel on the blacksmith's cart – chattering away amiably – dirt covering him from head to toe; but his smile bright and clear – it was good to see.

Monsieur Baudouin caught his line of sight, "Your friends have been a great help these past weeks. We couldn't have gotten this far without them."

Athos nodded – concentrating on d'Artagnan's transparent, open happiness.

Monsieur Baudouin gestured toward d'Artagnan, "That one has brought comfort to many a mother here."

Athos frowned slightly, "Has he?"

Monsieur Baudouin nodded, "Five have lost their sons. He has been someone to cook for – mend for and fuss over. He has gladly fetched their water; chopped their wood and sat for a meal or two. We are grateful. The mothers will miss him when you leave."

Athos' heart swelled with pride as they slowly made their way toward the stables. Truly, d'Artagnan would be the best of them, for he had brought him comfort over these weeks as well. Athos had lain in bed, sick with fever, and listened for hours at a time, through a haze of pain, to his "tales of Pinon."

Aramis had tried to convince him to take something for the pain, but he had refused; understanding his weakness for addictions – instead, letting the sound of d'Artagnan's voice and the tales keep severe physical discomfort at bay.

d'Artagnan would sit at his side – wipe his brow; feed him broth and tell him stories of Pinon.

There was the story of William – thirteen years old – the first volunteer to take up arms against the Baron. He had lost both his parents in the fighting and had been wounded in the arm himself. It seemed he had taken a liking to Treville – following him everywhere – soaking up tales of musketeer adventure and being a solider. So far – the whole town was taking care of him and the other orphans – making sure they had places to sleep; eat and feel safe. William was quite the hero in Pinon. He had made his own pauldron from cloth – drawn on it the fleur-de-lis – declaring himself a musketeer.

There were the stories of Jeanne – who had opened the doors of the inn to help the sick and wounded; helping to care for them day and night until they were ready to go home. She worked tirelessly by Aramis' side, who pushed himself to prevent further loss of life – visiting each one of the wounded daily to be sure they were changing a dressing – washing their wounds and taking draughts for pain.

Jeanne had recruited Porthos, and they worked diligently together to organize hunting parties to gather food; pool what was left of the crops and needed supplies after being reduced to almost nothing in the after math of the skirmish. Jeanne had become "lady" of the village.

The story of Monsieur Laurent had touched something in him greatly. d'Artagnan shared how the blacksmith had worked day and night for three days without stopping, to create the memory plaque for the twenty souls who were lost. On day four, he mounted it in front of the church – so that each day a villager could visit; leave flowers; a token or just touch the many names etched in iron – and remember.

In telling the story, d'Artagnan had paused, leaned close and whispered, "Did you know, Monsieur Laurent made a plaque for us as well – The Heroes of Pinon – with our names and the fleur-de-lis; thanking us for fighting against injustice."

And then there was Father Elie – who had lifted a weapon to help defend his home and the church – and cried the whole time, asking God to forgive him. He had led the villagers in prayer every evening while he had been racked with fever – praising him for his bravery and willingness to fight for Pinon, "praying for your speedy recovery". d'Artagnan had smiled at this – his eyes brimming with admiration. "He called you the prodigal son returned; and everyone agreed."

Sitting by his side, he had relayed with awe, "You know – people stopped by the inn every hour to ask about you. They would shake my hand; the mothers kissed my cheeks and left me food. I have never eaten so much in my life. I think they took pity on me. I've been so worried."

And it went on like this for two weeks – story after story; Pinon opened up before his eyes.

Athos had waited with anticipation every day to hear his tales – listening for pauses; stutters and prolonged silences – but there were none. His words flowed easily with no strain or discomfort. It seemed that his episodes of silence had diminished greatly – perhaps a product of watching him recover; or receiving such overwhelming attention from the mothers – Aramis had surmised.

Athos was amazed and captivated to see Pinon come to life in d'Artagnan's descriptions. And though he remembered many of these people from his childhood and from his time as the Comte – it felt as if he were meeting them for the first time through him.

And now – walking along side Monsieur Baudouin – to match faces and names to these accounts, brought him a sense of closure. Soon they would be leaving here and he would not return. He had already made up his mind – he would give Baudouin his seal; and he would be the one to manage Pinon in his stead.

Walking from place to place – speaking with the residents; shaking hands with the blacksmith; receiving freshly baked bread from the baker – visiting the plaque of the lost ones and hearing their gratitude for the help of the musketeers and for the gift of land – left him feeling content and guilty.

Sitting now alone in the church – resting before continuing on to the last place he must visit – his thoughts fell heavily on this. He would not have stayed to help but for his friends – especially d'Artagnan's passionate plea of his responsibilities. They knew better than him, and he was glad to have listened.

* * *

Baron Renard sat below his estate, in his family vault, staring at what was left of his reason to live. His boy, Edmond, was gone – lost to him forever.

He touched the casket before him and squeezed his eyes shut to close out the image of Edmond lying in the dirt bleeding out in his arms – lost, lost, lost….

What was he to do now? It had taken every ounce of strength he had to bury him – now; there was nothing of him left. All of his land – his lavish home – his title – held no meaning if there was no son to leave it to. His God given, divine right – his place on this earth – his sole purpose was to rule and to leave it to the next generation to rule in his name.

Now – there was only this void – a never ending waste land of pain that pierced his chest and made it hard for him to breathe. Looking to his wife's marker on the wall – he realized that her death had not compared to this devastation. He could not live without his son.

His eyes shifted to his own empty casket – waiting for the day his spirit left his own body – to lie in rest, with his ancestors and next to his dear, dear boy.

He laid his head on the cool surface of the casket, and wept – hard and deep – his well of tears indefinite. For the past few weeks it was all he could do – for he could not sleep, or eat; and barely took care of his needs – drinking only wine, next to his son until drunken oblivion snatched him down into darkness.

His servants cowered above ground, in the estate, afraid to disturb him – his grief leaving him filled with hysterical rage- holding onto his firearm; threatening to kill them if they interrupted him.

Renard lifted his head, tears and spittle streaming over his face unheeded; and thought of all that had transpired to lead to this.

The battle of Pinon had cost him everything. The Comte de la Fere, who did not wish to be a Comte – had survived – but not Edmond. Who was it that la Fere had lost; what had the battle cost him?

Baron Renard sat up straight and wiped the spittle from his nose and mouth. No – that man had lost nothing. He reached for his firearm atop his son's casket; and imagined himself shooting the Comte de la Fere dead. For a moment the imagery felt powerful; but then he exhaled, leaving himself deflated, and defeated all over again.

To kill the Comte would mean nothing. The man did not care for his title - his land - or his life. This was evident. He had been willing to die for those peasants, and leave his legacy to them.

He thought back on that day – looked past his own pain – and remembered the boy who held la Fere in his arms – screaming silently; beating the ground with his fists. That was love he witnessed – the same fierce love he held for Edmond.

Maybe there was someone he could lose that would pierce his heart as his had been pierced? Maybe the battle could cost him everything and leave him lost as he was lost.

He looked down at his son's casket and rubbed his name plate gently; placing his ear to the head to hear below the stone cover. There – there it was - the sound of his boy crying; sobbing – telling him how cold – how dark it was in limbo; and that he was afraid to be alone.

Baron Renard pressed his ear closer and whispered, "I know my boy – but I will make it right; you won't be alone for much longer. I promise."

He stood up straight then, resolved to a new purpose; and left the vault behind – calling to his servant to saddle a horse.

* * *

"Athos!" d'Artagnan called into the quiet church; and stepped in. There seated at the back pew was his friend – staring resolutely at the cross above the altar.

"Monsieur Baudouin has sent me with the cart", he stated boisterously and flopped down next to him – swiping dust and dirt from his shirt and pants. "He says you are tired – that your leg is bothering you; and there is one more place you'd like to go."

Athos nodded – happy to hear the string of words emitting from his friend unencumbered. A few weeks ago – he never would have believed it; but now the sound of his voice was much welcomed – even if over enthusiastic in this place of worship.

"So, here I am", he laughed, holding out his arms. "Where do you wish to go?", and stood ready to help his friend stand.

Athos waved him back, "I can get to the cart on my own", he stated – gritting his teeth as he held onto the pew in front of him and hauled himself to his feet.

d'Artagnan placed his hands on his hips and smiled with cheek, "Of course you can – but I want to help you anyway", and turned his back to Athos, for him to grab a hold of his shoulder, just as little Laura had done for him not so long ago.

So Athos – feeling the dull ache in his thigh ready to escalate into pain, conceded – gripped his shoulder; and together they left the church; moving cautious and slow toward the horse and cart – where d'Artagnan helped to carefully guide him up and into the seat.

d'Artagnan then ran around to the other side of the cart and bounded up into the seat beside him – took the reins and looked expectantly to his friend, "What will Aramis say about all this moving about today? You are barely from your sick bed."

Athos looked to the sky with some exasperation – and just as he was about to speak – d'Artagnan rolled his eyes and interrupted with, "I know, I know – you are your own man; have a mind of your own; and make your own rules."

The two sat for a moment – Athos eyes shooting daggers – d'Artagnan's crinkled with mirth – until he chuckled and asked, "Where is it you want me to take you Athos?"

Athos relaxed and looked out over the fields beyond the church and over the rise – to the tree that stood large, and steady – casting its shadow over Pinon.

d'Artagnan nodded – concern now wiping the mirth from his countenance as he set the horse on its path.

* * *

Baron Renard rode along aimlessly, heading his horse in the general direction of the la Fere estate. His thoughts wandered between his wife presenting him with a son – seeing Edmond take his last breath in the dirt; and providing the Comte de la Fere with a loss that would rival his own.

With his firearm pressed firmly in his hand – his purpose to live now directing his every move – it was only a matter of time before he would keep his promise to Edmond. He would no longer be cold, and alone. If there was anything he could do about it – he would give him that much.

Renard scanned the road – the fields – the area all around him. He was on a mission and would not be deterred.

* * *

Sitting with their backs to the massive trunk and looking above to the strong over hanging branches – Athos remembered the day he sat watching as the noose was placed around Anne's neck, at this very tree. She had stood with her back – ramrod straight – staring him down; until he could watch no more.

He covered his eyes and inwardly groaned. He had loved her beyond life; condemned her to death, and wanted to destroy himself for it for five years. He leaned his head back and stared up at the limbs – had he done the right thing? Did he rush to judgement? Was his decision the catalyst that created the unfeeling assassin she had become? How could he redeem himself if he did not asses the past?

He looked down at his hands, and then secretly glanced at the young man beside him - and what of d'Artagnan? When it came to him he had a blind spot. There was nothing he could do that would anger him for long; he would do anything for him – even give his life. His welfare meant everything – his health; wellbeing – were a priority – his life above all a must.

Only fourteen years separated them, yet he felt his love for him as a brother and then some. Was this how a father felt for a son? His experience with such things was limited. His relationship with his own father had been strained; tense and oppressive – so he would not know. Only Treville had filled that blank space of fatherhood with consistent loyalty and encouragement; showing through action his unwavering faith in his abilities.

Too many questions bombarded him; and he now only wished to quiet his mind – before a dark mood set in.

d'Artagnan sat silently next to Athos, pulling on the grass at his feet – unwilling to disturb his friend's distressful musings. Whatever he was thinking of – he could tell it was pressing; and that he was not sent away – for him to think alone – spoke volumes to him. What could he say to help? Should he say anything?

Moments like this – he wished Aramis or Porthos were here. They always knew the right thing to do when it came to emotions and feelings - and when hard things needed to be said. He had always counted on his father and now Athos and the others to take the lead on such things.

He stole a helpless look in Athos' direction. All he knew was that he loved him; would do anything for him; and that he could do nothing that would turn him away. Should he say that? Would it be helpful?

Suddenly a shadow fell across him; and when he looked up, silhouetted by the sun, stood Baron Renard – his hair blowing askew in the breeze; face flushed; his eyes red and manic. He then lifted a firearm, and pointed it right at Athos.

d'Artagnan gasped and felt Athos look up also; and moved to stand to protect his friend; but Athos held his arm in a powerful grip – telling him to "stay".

Athos' heart beat fast, his mind trying to catch up to what was happening in front of him, "What is it you want Baron?" , he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even; noticing the unfocused; unkempt delirious look of the man before him.

He reached slowly for his sword, and remembered that he had not carried a weapon while in Pinon – admonishing himself for this mistake.

"What I want Comte is for you to lose as much as I have." The Baron tilted his head listening past rustling leaves, to his son tell him how afraid he was. "My boy is cold, alone; and afraid in the dark Comte. I have promised him he won't be alone anymore."

Athos squeezed d'Artagnan's arm tighter – feeling the weakness in his body – knowing that he would be unable to overpower the Baron without getting one of them killed, "What are you talking about Baron?", he insisted, trying to keep the man focused and on him – as d'Artagnan was unarmed as well.

Calling to d'Artagnan, but keeping his weapon and eyes trained on Athos, the Baron barked, "You stand up boy!"

Athos held on tight for a moment, but let his arm loose; and nodded for d'Artagnan to do as he was told. d'Artagnan reluctantly stood as the Baron continued, "Get on the horse and wait for me. If you try anything, I will kill the Comte right here."

d'Artagnan walked toward the Baron's horse and mounted – taking his cue from Athos, understanding that to rush him, or to go for help, might lead to Athos' death, and he couldn't risk it. The Baron then moved toward the horse and cart; released the horse; slapped her on her flank and urged her with a push to run. Satisfied that he would be stranded out here for a while, he turned to Athos, leaned over him and jeered, "Your boy for my boy – that is a fair exchange, don't you think?

Athos leaned in closer, and bore his eyes into the madness in front of him, "If you harm him, I will kill you."

The Baron then turned away – mounted his horse behind d'Artagnan; kicked his flank and took off at a quick gallop – away toward the west.

Athos got swiftly and painfully to his feet; looked around in helpless frustration. There was no one nearby to turn to. So he began the run to Pinon – desperate to gather his brothers and retrieve d'Artagnan.

* * *

Porthos sat languidly in the shade of the stables and watched as Treville spoke with William in serious tones, discussing the finer points of being a good soldier and taking care of your horse. William sat enthralled; eyes wide; hanging on every word. He nodded with enthusiasm, asked lots of questions, and was a captive audience. Porthos chuckled to himself – Treville was eating it up.

Though he was definitely still angry with the man for keeping secrets from him about his parentage – he could not deny that Treville was a good man. Not many years ago – he had sat listening to Treville with the same type of awe and enthusiasm; grateful he had taken an interest – and helped fulfill his dream of becoming a musketeer.

Over these few weeks; Treville had been good for young William. He had needed something to cling on to and aspire to; and Treville had given it to him. The boy adored him; and soaked up every bit of information Treville had to offer.

A commotion in the square pulled him from these thoughts, and he watched as Monsieur Laurent walked a horse over to the stables, "This is my horse", he announced perplexed to Porthos,"d'Artagnan borrowed her and the cart earlier today to ride the Comte in. Why has she come back alone?"

Porthos looked to his Captain; and they were instantly of one accord.

"Go to the inn and have Aramis come quickly", he commanded William, who took off running – sensing the urgency in Treville's voice. Then he turned to Laurent, "Ride him in from where?" Monsieur Laurent shrugged his shoulders, but then remembered, "They were last at the church."

The two musketeers began saddling three horses and then there was Aramis with William breathing heavily at his heels - in the stables with their weapons asking, "What has happened?"

Porthos called over his shoulder, "Our boys are in trouble", and swung up into his saddle reaching down to William for his weapons – Treville doing the same. Aramis then mounted, and the musketeers quickly made their way to the church.

William stood still at the stable doors watching them retreat; clutching at the cloth pauldron on his arm – wishing he could go with them.

As they progressed closer to the church – Aramis spotted the lone, massive tree in the distance and knew this was where Athos would want to go - bent over his horse and led the others in that direction. They followed without hesitation – leaving the village behind.

* * *

d'Artagnan sat in front of Baron Renard stiff and uncertain if he should try and make a move. The barrel of the firearm dug painfully into his back; and the Baron speaking in riddles to his dead son – had him wondering about the man's sanity.

That Athos lived was a relief – and anything beyond that was an afterthought. When they reached the de Louvier estate – the Baron dismounted and then forcibly yanked d'Artagnan down from the saddle – dragging him by the back of his collar to a cluster of stairs leading underground.

The servants who had rushed to meet him; fell back toward the house scurrying in fear – wondering now if their liege was truly deranged.

At the top of the stairs – he called down, "Edmond?" and pushed d'Artagnan down, watching as he tumbled to the bottom.

d'Artagnan was stunned as he found himself ricocheting down the stairs – his head making painful contact with sharp edges; causing his vision to blur into an explosion of light. When he reached the bottom his head was throbbing and his side was on fire. When he touched the tender spot at his temple, his hand came away sticky with blood. He felt the earth spinning beneath him, and thought he might release his most recent meal, but swallowed it down.

Renard reached down and dragged him to his feet – propelling him toward the casket at the back of the vault. "There is my son", he moaned – grabbing his head; and pulling at his hair.

"There is Edmond!" he shrieked, more forcefully, waving his weapon for emphasis. "He is alone and I have promised him you for his company."

d'Artagnan's stomach clenched with fear. Baron Renard was insane and he had to get out of here. The Baron then pointed his weapon to the open casket next to Edmond's, "This was for me when my time came – but I have promised my son – so you must take my place."

d'Artagnan decided then, and rushed for Renard – grabbing him about the waste attempting to tackle him to the ground; but the man's strength brought on by madness was formidable – he would not go down. Instead, Renard took the butt of his weapon and hit him about his head; neck and shoulders; and when d'Artagnan fell to the ground – followed up with a strike to his temple.

d'Artagnan's head exploded in agony and he succumbed to darkness, thinking, "I am about to die."

* * *

As the musketeers raced for the tree at a full gallop – Porthos pointed ahead, and there running toward them was Athos; his thigh bleeding profusely; his face red with exertion – his breathing labored and heavy.

When he saw them, he stopped – leaned over and pulled in gulps of air – attempting to manage his pain and emotions. When they met him – Treville reached down and pulled him deftly to sit behind him in the saddle.

Athos raised his voice to be heard, "Renard has taken him to his estate – we must hurry – he has gone mad." And without breaking cadence, they rushed to the west, toward the Louvier estate.

* * *

When d'Artagnan regained consciousness and opened his eyes, what greeted him was darkness and pain. He groaned and felt the sound echo close around him. Where was he? What was happening?

He squeezed his eyes tight, opened them again, and saw flashes of light in the corner of his eyes. Was he dead? Had Bertrand killed him after all? He reached for his throat with trepidation. His head hurt so bad – why did his head hurt so? He touched his temple; felt wetness and was confused.

He placed his hands out in front of his face and could see nothing. Had he and the King been captured? Was he now in the bowels of a Spanish slave ship?

He coughed and felt his side pull at him with such pain that he gasped. When he tried to roll onto his side – he found he could not – and felt a barrier there keeping him from moving. He reached out and felt for the other side, and also met a resisting force.

When he extended his hands above him, and came upon that same resistance, a heavy weight of panic assailed his chest, his limbs and his mind. Suddenly he could not breathe, the air felt thin; heat encompassed him and pressed down on his lungs – he thought he heard Pepin yelling in the distance to come join him.

He pushed at the barrier above him, and Gus laughed loud and hardy, the sound of it closing in around him in the small space. He pushed again, and Baron Renard beat him about the head – ordering him to not leave Edmond alone.

Baron Renard.

Realization hit him. He was in the casket – closed in – left to suffocate and die next to Edmond. He gathered what little strength he had, and pushed at the cover again – straining his muscles; feeling his side burn with the effort.

When he could push no more, he lay back exhausted – breathing in the stale air around him – terror taking a firm hold. Then everything went haywire in his mind – Pepin, Gus, Bertrand, the dead of Place de L'Eglise; and Pinon were howling and lamenting – shrieking for him to join them.

He covered his ears to block them out, but it was no use – there was nowhere for him to go to escape the noise.

Then beyond the dirge, he heard a faint whisper, "steady". He removed his hands from his ears and honed in, "steady". He frowned in the dark and latched on – that was Athos; and heard the whisper again, this time close to his ear, "steady".

Soon the mantra drowned out the cacophony of deathly noise and all he heard was the anchoring resonance of Athos' voice – clear and distinct – giving him direction.

So, he closed his eyes, drifted away and would wait.

* * *

Once at the estate – the musketeers dismounted and were met by a man servant, who with fear and anxiety pulled Treville by his arm, leading him to the stairway that would take them below ground to the family vault. He pointed below, trembling with fear; afraid that any moment his master would appear and shoot him dead for his disloyalty.

The musketeers nodded their thanks to the frightened man and gestured for him to return to the house. They drew their muskets; held them out before them, and quietly made their way down into the vault.

Below them they could hear the echoes of a one sided conversation – the Baron pleading for his son to stop crying.

When they reached the bottom, they observed the Baron – resting over his son's casket – his weapon at his feet.

Athos stormed toward him – ripped him from the casket – grabbed him by the front of his tunic and shook him harshly, yelling, "Where is he?" his eyes wild with rage.

The musketeers looked around them, and seeing no others – holstered their weapons.

Receiving no answer from the sobbing man in his grip, Athos pushed him to the ground in disdain and looked to his friends, "He is here", he said with certainty – clutching at his chest.

"But where?" Aramis countered. The space was small – could he be hidden behind something? The four men spread out to look.

Porthos then called to them from the side of one of the caskets, "There is blood here; and here", he stated as he pointed to the ground.

Noticing the closed casket and Baron Renard's name etched on the plate, the four looked to each other, and knew right away where d'Artagnan could be. As one, they quickly began to heave the heavy stone cover from the casket, and when they pushed it off, it fell to the ground with a crash – cracking like a lightning bolt.

Athos looked down into the casket and could not breathe. There lay d'Artagnan, still as death – blood covering his hair, the side of his face and his neck. Athos reached in and gently touched the side of his face; softly calling his name. He received no response, so held his chin more firmly, and called again with urgency, "d'Artagnan wake up!"

But only stillness and silence met his plea – so he grabbed him by the collar; and shook him with force; ignoring Aramis' hold about his shoulders attempting to pull him away – causing d'Artagnan's head to loll to the side, and his eyes to open at half-mast – seeing but not seeing.

Shaking Aramis off, Athos held the boy up in his arms, and pushed the hair from d'Artagnan's face attempting to look into his eyes.

Athos yelled to him, "We are here!", but d'Artagnan was lost – trapped somewhere he could not reach – his body limp; his eyes tracking away from him. He laid him down gently – and touched his hair. The others dismayed into speechlessness.

From the corner of the vault, the Baron could be heard wailing, his cries bouncing off the walls, "Now you know – your boy for mine!"

Athos looked down at d'Artagnan, and before the others could react - left his side, and strode with purpose toward the hysterical Baron. He looked about and retrieved the man's discarded weapon from the floor; aimed down at him ready to pull the trigger. Suddenly there was Treville standing before him; blocking him from the Baron – the weapon now pointing straight at the Captain's heart.

"You don't need to do this" Treville said, placing his hand over top of Athos' – his voice calm; even. From where they stood by the casket – Porthos and Aramis held their breaths, and watched in stunned apprehension.

Athos growled through clenched teeth and stared straight through his Captain, his eyes hard with intent, "No – I don't need to", and moved to step around Treville.

Treville moved with him, held onto his hand, and slowly pressed his arm down toward the ground. He took a chance and stepped to the side, "He is dead already Athos."

Athos blinked.

"See?" and they both looked down at the Baron – who pulled at his hair; scratched at his face; and screamed only for Edmond.

"Baron Renard is no longer here", he soothed gently, removing the weapon from Athos' grip.

Athos turned, looked into Treville's eyes, and saw the truth in his words. The Baron was gone - here now was a husk of a man; whose mind was shattered.

Treville let out a breath; and wiped the sweat from his brow – pitching the weapon across the small space – the clatter of it reverberating loud and clear.

Athos felt his world tilt, and would have collapsed if not for Treville's firm hold on him; and firmer voice telling him, "Let's get out of here."

Porthos and Aramis seeing the crisis averted, reached down and lifted d'Artagnan up and out of the casket with ease, and carried him limp in their arms toward the stairs and out of the vault.

* * *

Athos sat patiently by d'Artagnan's bedside; rubbed at his eyes tiredly, but would not give into the pull of much needed sleep.

For three agonizing days d'Artagnan drifted in and out of consciousness - silently navigating between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness; never quite here or there; his friends never leaving his side.

When he was awake, he was unresponsive – in every way. He would not speak; take sustenance; or relieve himself without help. When asleep – he tossed and turned – reaching out to push away the stone cover; but never made a sound of distress.

They were unsure he even understood what they said to him. But it didn't matter. Day after day, Athos spoke to him; read to him – force fed him broth and cleaned him up. He was tireless in his care, but d'Artagnan still did not acknowledge him – any of them – in any way. Instead, he stared out to some distant point, as if waiting for something – until sleep wrenched him away.

It was as if his mind had shut down; locking them out. But Athos refused to give up – he just had to wait - d'Artagnan would come back; and when he did – he would be here to greet him.

So on this evening, while everyone else had gone to the chapel to pray – he had stayed behind – refusing to let anyone else sit with him. Jeanne had volunteered; the mothers had insisted – but he was adamant; he wanted to be here when d'Artagnan woke up.

So when d'Artagnan pushed his way to consciousness yet again, he could not breathe – the air was stale; and he could not move the stone cover from over top of him. He pushed, and pushed, but could not move it. The noise about him was deafening – the wailing of the dead pressing at his senses; but this time he heard it – the faint appeal he was waiting for.

"Steady"

He took in a shuddering breath – but the cover still would not move. He felt himself being lifted up and warmth enveloped him.

"Steady"

The wailing called to him, but the warmth held him closer; and he heard the breath of a whisper in his ear calling – "Steady".

d'Artagnan opened his eyes and found himself being held in Athos' arms – so he reached out and held him back.

Athos – feeling arms wind weakly around his waist – pulled back and was astonished to see d'Artagnan gazing up at him. He gently laid him down but held onto his arms watching the emotions of confusion and uncertainty cascade across his face. Was this understanding he saw? Had d'Artagnan decided to come back?

d'Artagnan scanned the room, and could see that he was at the inn where they lodged in Pinon lying on his bed. The room was quiet, with light glowing from the fire in the hearth; and a single candle on the nightstand. There was no one else in the room except him and Athos.

He looked up again at his friend, who explained, "You are well, a few bumps to the head; some bruises and a cracked rib – but nothing to worry about. You will recover." But d'Artagnan heard something else in his explanation and searched his face to find the answer.

Athos frowned slightly; worry swirling in his stomach – but he worked to keep his face neutral; searched d'Artagnan's eyes, and asked, "What do you remember?"

d'Artagnan thought hard on this and remembered that he had been waiting.

Athos grabbed his hand and squeezed – insisting – so he cleared his throat and answered, "I was waiting". Athos released his breath, and swiped a shaking hand over his face. A weakness came over him; and he could feel relief rush through his body.

"Do you remember anything else?"

d'Artagnan creased his brow in concentration and thought back to the last thing that was clear in his mind, and softly recounted, "I remember I wanted to tell you, that you are my brother, that I love you, and that whatever you have done doesn't matter."

Athos regarded his brother and smiled – the affection and fondness of it reaching his eyes. He swallowed around the constriction in his throat and turned his face to hide his emotions.

He felt d'Artagnan touch his arm; and after gathering himself, turned to his brother and greeted, "Welcome back."

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! This chapter sort of ran away with me and was much longer than I initially intended. Thanks again for those of you who have read, and reviewed. Your thoughts and comments mean a great deal! Thank you also to those who have followed, and favorited this story.

To those of you who review and I am unable to respond – thank you for your continued support.


	6. Chapter 6

Conclusions

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Although the bond between Athos and d'Artagnan is strong – no one could have guessed the absolute depth of their connection. Will that connection prove powerful enough to save them both?

* * *

Well everyone, here is the final chapter to Conclusions.

I hope you enjoy this. Please review and tell me what you think!

Chapter 6: Correlations

Constance stood atop the rise and watched as d'Artagnan made his way slowly toward them. What was taking him so long? She missed his presence at her side already – even if it had been only moments ago since the escorts had helped her to navigate her way up the muddy hillside. He looked so tired; worn out – as if he could barely take another step. But then he looked up and graced her with such a magnificent smile; she could stand the distance between them no longer.

Constance lifted her dress to her knees and took off running down the hill on a mission. When she reached him, he stood resolute – brashly waiting for her to make the first move. So, she placed her arms about his neck; tipped to her toes and kissed him firmly on the lips. When he kissed her back, she held him close – so close she could feel his heart racing – right in step with her own.

It didn't matter who was there to see. It didn't matter that the King looked on with disapproval. All that mattered was that he was here with her. She raked her hand through his hair, and caressed his neck. The nightmare was over.

They had survived one of the most horrific moments in her life –a life that had been close to losing the one person who meant anything; and everything to her.

She held on tight and kissed him again – tasting blood on his lips and feeling him tremble in her arms. His breath on her shoulder was a balm that sent tingling vibrations down her spine. His arms about her waist were warm and comforting. She buried her head in his neck and breathed in the smell of him.

A mad man had tried to take her life away, attempted to steal him, and condemn her to a living death. But God had seen fit to spare him, and she was eternally grateful – so grateful, she was willing now to change the course of her life.

d'Artagnan had almost died today – given his life to save hers. When Marmion had fired that shot; she thought her life was over; but here he was – warm and safe. She felt his arms tighten around her; and she professed, "I love you", - pressed her body closer still, and heard his soft whispered breath against her ear, "I know."

He sounded so drained – but happy. She laughed – feeling happy herself. She had made up her mind. She would take that leap with him. They could do anything if they dared, and she would follow his lead.

There would be no more hesitation on her part. She learned today, the hard way that life was too short; and happiness was not promised – it had to be taken.

She leaned back from his embrace to tell him as much; but a sharp retort echoed through the air; and his weight was falling into her.

"d'Artagnan?" she asked, confused as to what was happening. His legs buckled, and the heaviness of him was too much for her to shore up, and they fell together to the ground; his head falling to her breasts, as she shook his shoulders – calling, "d'Artagnan?"

When she looked down – he was staring right at her, his brow furrowed in confusion and pain; she stared back – unable to articulate the words to ask – what was wrong; why were they in the dirt? She touched his face – her hands shaking and her heart pounding in her throat. He touched her hair at her shoulder; looked past her to the top of the hill – and went completely limp in her arms.

She pulled him in close and screamed.

* * *

Athos watched from on top of the hill, as his best friend leaned into the woman he loved and kissed her with unbridled passion.

He quirked a smile; and chuckled – only the very young displayed such emotion in front of God and King without a sense of discomfort or mortification.

He lowered his gaze and sighed with relief. Everyone he cared about had survived Marmion's horrific and calculated attack on the King and his party. He slid a glance in Anne's direction – who stood apart – and was somewhat surprised that he included her within his circle of consideration. She had come looking for him to help and rescue the others. He wasn't sure what he thought about that – but felt glad she was obliging in this instance. As always, her duplicitous nature confounded him to no end; leaving him confused and unsure how to deal with her.

Once again – in her own way - she had stepped in; and for whatever reason had decided to do the right thing. And by saving the King – she had also assisted in saving France. The King should feel indebted; but he didn't get the sense that would be the case.

He looked to the ground to hide his emotions. God, how beautiful she was – how very, very beautiful and lest he forget – deadly. He shut his eyes tight to try and block out the image of the noose around her neck. Deadly she was because of his own actions. Every wrong turn she took – was due to him. He would never escape it.

He rolled his shoulders, opened his eyes and barred such thoughts from his mind. For now – he must not think on her. To think on her, only brought him a sense of confusion; and that confusion would drive him mad. Instead he thought on d'Artagnan.

When he and the others had stormed the room of planets in the fort – and his eyes fell on d'Artagnan and Constance tethered together – he had flashed back to that moment, months ago – in the tavern cellar - of d'Artagnan, lying helpless on the ground – hands bound and at the mercy of Bertrand – then in Pinon, imprisoned in a closed casket and trapped in his own mind.

At the sight of his friend in distress – instinct took over – his mind went blank – and as quickly as the fight had begun; it ended – with him standing over several lifeless bodies; breathless and coming down from adrenaline. And with this accomplished – his mind once again in control; the scene before him of d'Artagnan safe in the arms of his love – brought him to peace.

When he looked about, he had little memory of the battle – only its outcome- the successful recovery of d'Artagnan and of course the King of France and his family.

He remembered how he had wiped his brow, scanned the room and was content that now everything was as it should be. Captain Treville in command; Aramis battered – but alive; the King – indignant, but unharmed; Porthos – breathing hard, in his element; d'Artagnan safe and in love – himself? Of little consequence.

However, now in the aftermath of near cataclysmic disaster – to see d'Artagnan exultant; released something content in him also; for this had been a difficult several months for them all. Since their return from Pinon – things had been strained between them and within their personal lives.

Aramis had returned and gone from euphoric from battle and helping the villagers recover to distracted and anxious. Athos could see that his concern for the Queen and the dauphin were immense. They consumed every waking hour of his thoughts and perhaps his dreams. He noticed that Aramis had taken to a secretive nature; disappearing for hours on end with no explanation – positive it all had to do with the Queen somehow.

His mind was so filled with them that he had little time to consider fully all that transpired around him. It was as if he walked in a bubble – here with them but his body and mind encapsulated elsewhere. He had wanted to break through and tried to speak on it with him – instead of telling him what to do. But speaking of such things was not his strength and so reluctantly let it pass.

He could see today; acknowledged that his single mindedness towards the Queen and the child most likely saved them.

That he survived a fall that Porthos described as great and d'Artagnan expressed as "death for sure" – was a testament to the man's instinct to survive.

Porthos had returned to Paris and the distance between him and Treville continued to grow. He did not understand this rift. In Pinon, they worked side by side and helped the residents to store food; clear out spoiled crops; replace damaged property; and just lend a hand in general.

These were two good men; now reduced to glares and mistrust – anger; and on Treville's part – uncertainty. So much so, that Treville had confided in him the thought of retirement. He could tell however, that as much as losing his Captaincy hurt him; Porthos' resentment toward him injured him more. There was more to their relationship than met the eye, between Porthos and Treville; anyone who knew them could see how close they were. He understood that bond and wanted to offer any insight he could.

However, Porthos would not speak to him of it – determined to "handle his own affairs". That was fair enough, but he cursed his inability to communicate the depth of his concern. It saddened him to see the rift between the two. He loved them both and wished to help.

But Porthos' strength and force of will were legendary – with those attributes – perhaps he and Treville would soon reconcile whatever it was between them.

That he survived today on that force of will; having to overcome his hatred of Rochefort and compromise, was not surprising.

Back from Pinon, d'Artagnan's recovery from his trauma had been slow, but steady. Though injuries to his body had healed – darkness; close spaces and unexpected touch had become an issue.

At times his voice would leave him; silence again a fall back mechanism to what he had been through. Where in Pinon, he had shown improvements among the mothers - now there were set backs he worked desperately to overcome.

Once home, Athos was pleased to see that the relationship between d'Artagnan and Constance had settled on friendship. Her firm, yet gentle nature seemed to have brought him ease and peace. And to Athos – a deeper respect for Constance and her innate ability to see what he saw in d'Artagnan – a brave man; tortured, but strong enough to come back from the hell Renard had put him through.

She knew just what to say when the room closed in on him - knew to keep a light burning in dark spaces and waited patiently without judgement for words to come when they failed him.

She smiled, caressed, and nudged softly when the situation called for it; but also pushed d'Artagnan with determination to come back to himself. He was grateful and could see that her love was the key to not only surviving today – but d'Artagnan's survival in the long term. She was his other half – there was no mistaking their tie to one another. That d'Artagnan loved her – meant he would love her also – another member to join the ranks of his small clan.

So when he watched them embrace – fold into each other as if one – he thought all was well with his family; everyone accounted for – and then a sharp crack resounded; and she screamed.

* * *

The terror of it flew through the air and pierced his heart as if an arrow had struck him. He took off running down the hill toward them – hearing the footsteps of his brothers close behind.

When he reached them, Athos slid to the ground at their side. Constance turned frightened eyes to him; wide open with confusion. "I don't understand", she sobbed to him; bringing d'Artagnan closer still to her body – holding his head to her chest.

Athos looked down and his throat constricted with fear. He leaned in and could feel d'Artagnan's breath on his cheek. When he reached out to touch him, his hands trembled; but he had to know, so he raked his hands through d'Artagnan's hair – down his neck; shoulders; chest and then his sides. There, he felt the wet sticky sensation of blood.

He pulled his hands back and looked down to not only see his hands stained with d'Artagnan's blood; but Constance's dress beginning to soak with it down the front.

He was transfixed – there on his knees - he and Constance looking to each other for answers. When he saw none forthcoming, he looked to the tree line. Had not the shot come from the east – back toward the fort?

Constance looked down at d'Artagnan and noticed the blood spreading across the front of her dress and could not comprehend it. Where was it all coming from? How was this happening? He had just held her tight – kissed her; and confirmed his love. She could still feel his warm breath on her shoulder. She bent down and kissed his lips hard and with expectation – but he did not kiss her back.

When she looked to Athos – he was already on his feet – his eyes gazing toward the east; hand on the hilt of his sword – his body tense; coiled and ready to race to the tree line.

Aramis moved in quickly and gently removed d'Artagnan from her grip; Porthos bent down and pulled Constance to her feet – moving her hastily away – shielding her body from some unknown threat.

She could hear noise atop the hill – Rochefort and Treville urging the King's carriage away and back toward the Palace – wheels retreating fast on the road. Treville yelling for them to take cover and retreat; knowing his musketeers would stand fast, and not leave d'Artagnan behind - the King commanding loudly for protection and the dauphin screaming at a high frenetic pitch as they rounded the bend.

Constance peered around Porthos' solid frame and watched in a stupor as Aramis barked sharply at Athos – standing above him – to help. As if returning from a distance, Athos turned from scanning the trees – fell back to his knees and together they lifted d'Artagnan's shirt and found the wound at his side.

They turned him toward them – "I see no exit", Aramis exclaimed and felt along the entry point. "I feel the ball here at the rib", he announced. "We need to get him back to the garrison."

"Who is shooting at us?" Porthos asked scanning the area, continuing to shield Constance as best he could.

Athos countered, "Whoever it is – they are gone now – or else we would all be dead by now."

Aramis looked to his friend – who appeared ready to track down the assailant at this very moment, "We must get d'Artagnan to the garrison and remove this bullet", he insisted again; hoping Athos would hear him above the rage building up in his body.

Athos nodded and through sheer fortitude - kept his attention on the here and now. Porthos reached down and lifted d'Artagnan into his arms and began the walk up the hill to their horses and a carriage left behind by the royal party.

Constance watched with dread at how compliant and uncoordinated d'Artagnan's limbs swayed as Porthos trudged up the hill – his weight nothing to him. Athos touched her shoulder; she came to herself; and ran to catch up with Porthos; to be near her life line. She grabbed hold of d'Artagnan's hand falling loosely to the side – and held on tight.

* * *

Sabine Rochette watched from the tree line as the last of them departed from the fort and headed up the rise.

She lay flat on her stomach – pointed the musket at their retreating forms and contemplated on what to do.

Everyone she ever knew had either scattered to the winds or had been killed; and now lay dead within the fort, beneath a simulated heavenly sky. The last she saw of her Robert – he had yelled for her to leave – to run away as fast as she could; promising to meet her back at Gerberoy.

There had not even been time enough for a hug – a hurried kiss – or a warm smile of good-bye; only rushing about, running and panic. She could still hear musket fire blasting away in her head.

Things had not gone as planned. Jacque had twisted things; believed he was now Marmion – and had turned Gerberoy's journey of validity into his own personal vendetta. Instead of receiving justice for their King's act of genocide, they instead received death; and were now to be fugitives – running for their lives – for the rest of their lives.

What had been left of Gerberoy was now totally gone – its people extinct by death – or through forced invisibility – forever to hide in shadows, lest they be executed for treason and murder.

And what was she to do without Robert? Surely, he was dead – or would be; to leave her here on this earth alone. Not only had she to suffer with the after effects of the plague; but to now also suffer the grief of his loss. How was she to survive it?

To have lived and be witness to her parents starved to death out of neglect; indifference – and the will to see her survive it, was hell beyond reason; a hell that all of Gerberoy shared and kept close to their hearts. It had taken a whole year to plan their charade. A year to build the camera obscura; six months the rotating mirror and viewing surface – many more months to make costumes – masks; and to perfect the fraud of science.

A full year of their lives – committed fully to communal hatred with only Robert as her spark of life.

The whole village had rallied behind Jacque's idea of getting justice – of having the King pay for what he had done. It had given them a reason to live. The thought of the King on his knees, begging for mercy was all they wanted; and hoped that his humiliation would dampen their sorrows – give them all something to cling to when the horror of what they suffered became too much to bear.

Now it was all lost. What did she have to live for now? Her family was gone; the King had escaped their judgment; and Robert was as good as dead.

Sabine touched the remnants of the plague about her face and sobbed in a breath. If not for Gerberoy and her parents; then she would get justice for herself – for Robert.

As she watched the young lovers embrace before her – she thought of her dear, dear Robert. He had been so good to her – kind – and so tender. He looked at her with such love; and without seeing the plague that scarred her body and her mind. What was she to do?

Sabine squeezed her eyes shut and let the tears run free down her cheeks.

When she opened them – she was determined to set things right; took aim; fired and watched the musketeer fall to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and raced as fast as she could through the trees; over brush and fallen limbs. "For Robert", she whispered as she ran toward home.

* * *

When they reached the garrison – Treville met them in the yard with Dr. Lemay at his side. Musketeers huddled in groups watching in concern – having heard from Treville what had transpired at the fort. A detail had already been assigned to collect the bodies of the murdered gentry; and to search for escaped assailants.

Treville, Porthos, Athos and Lemay – reached for d'Artagnan and lifted him from the carraige – rushing him to the infirmary. Constance followed behind, dazed and frantic at the same time – with Aramis holding her up by the shoulders leading her in.

He sat her in a chair by the door and squeezed her hands, "He'll be alright", he assured, noticing how slowly she blinked up at him. He kissed her forehead and left her side; rushing into the room used to examine injured musketeers – ready to lend a hand to Lemay.

Constance looked down at her dress splattered with blood; and gripped her hands tightly together and prayed.

On the way here, she had sat on the floor of the carriage and would not let go of d'Artagnan's hand. She had kissed it; pressed his palm at her cheek; and whispered for him to "wake up, wake up, wake up…"

He had opened his eyes once – smiled at her; then brushed his fingers through her hair and behind her ear. His face was etched with pain and he groaned deep from his throat – arching his back from the seat of the carriage, as it raced toward the garrison on bumpy terrain. He had wanted to speak; the question in his eyes apparent – but she pressed her lips to his and spoke for him, "You have been shot." And when his eyes began to blink slowly and finally close, she pressed on urgently, "I love you d'Artagnan" – and he was unconscious again.

So now, she would pray – pray to God for him to live. If he lived – she would do anything; even give him up – give up her dream of happiness and go on with things as they were. How had she even believed that happiness was hers to have – that her sin would not catch up to her – and stain their love? How had she thought it possible?

She would live unhappy and in misery – if only God would spare him. It should have been her that ball struck; it should be her life in the balance – for if he died – how would she live without him?

Athos stood before Constance and watched as she pressed her eyes closed; tightened her hands together and moved her lips in obvious, fevered, prayer.

He looked down at his own hands – stained with d'Artagnan's blood and his heart turned cold – his senses and emotions beginning to dull with rage. Aramis had pushed him from the room – silently pleading for him to go to Constance and give her company. But indecision was at war within him and he needed to leave here now, and go find the person or persons who did this before he exploded.

Porthos came behind him; clapped him gently on the back – Constance opened her eyes and stared up at them. "How is he?" she asked anxiously.

"The ball is here", Porthos explained, pointing to his right rib. "Lemay thinks he can get to it; clean out the area from bits of material; then we wait and see."

Athos heard Porthos' words and considered the emotions on Constance's face carefully – it was a mirror of his own pain. She reached for him and he sat next to her and held her hand – but he could not help her. He could not offer her words of encouragement. He bowed his head and pressed her hands to his lips. God forgive him, but he had nothing to give that would bring her comfort. Right now – he only felt a need to leave here and make whoever did this pay with their life. To lose him now – after everything they had been through was unfathomable.

When he looked again to her face – what he saw staring back at him was determination and permission for him to leave her side; and go set things right.

He let go of her hand; stood to his feet and nodded to her in agreement. Athos strode to the door with Porthos close behind.

When he reached the yard – he walked with purpose to the stables to retrieve a horse – but stopped to address his friend, "You don't need to come with me."

Porthos studied Athos face – decision made, declared, "But I will."

Once atop their mounts, they rode out side by side back toward the fort.

* * *

Sabine made her way delicately through the woods - picking her way over underbrush – and stepping carefully over downed trees and limbs. She had long since stopped running – her limbs felt too heavy and her feet stung with each step.

Her sheer pink, nymph costume snagged on tree branches and the wafer-thin matching slippers provided little protection from the undergrowth.

She looked to the sky and shivered – feeling the change in temperature as the sun began its descent toward evening. She stood still in her tracks and stared directly at the setting sun. Just hours ago, she had been witness to the solar eclipse in its entire heavenly splendor - an event that was to coincide with the humiliation of their King – and bring Gerberoy some modicum of justice.

Instead, here she was, running away, trying to get home – alone.

Sabine pushed her frazzled hair from her face – sat down in the dirt and wept. She looked down at the musket still held in her hand, and dropped it to the ground as if stung. What had she done? Robert would never forgive her.

She rocked back and forth – and peered up at the sun again through her blurred vision of tears. God would not forgive her. And the eclipse had been proof of Him and his power. Would He blot her out as He had blot out the sun? Would he send the angel of death to come take her away to purgatory?

She prayed now here alone in the dirt with every ounce of humility she could muster – for the musketeer she had shot to live. If he lived – she would gladly give her life – and follow the angel wherever he would lead.

When this had all begun – she had never thought to take a life. Now she was at His mercy.

Sabine stood to her feet and swiped the tears from her face. If she could just get home to Gerberoy; then she could rest and wait.

* * *

When Porthos and Athos came into view of the fort, what greeted them would have been unthinkable mere hours ago.

A detail of musketeers and Red Guard worked side by side- bringing out the bodies of murdered Red Guard; nobles in tights; ladies in frills; followers of Marmion; and Marmion himself. Athos looked grimly at the sight. It was a massacre – some of it his doing. He hitched in a breath and felt helpless to this devastation.

"d'Artagnan will not join them", he heard Porthos say beside him.

Athos nodded – certain of Dr. Lemay's and Aramis' skill of healing. He was confident they would do everything in their power. d'Artagnan was in good hands. Clearing his mind – he gathered himself and dismounted.

As he walked past the bodies arranged to be identified and retrieved by family – he could not help but be stunned by the depths of Marmion's vengeance and depravity. Would he go to such lengths if it had been his family wiped out? He stood over Marmion's body and thought – yes – perhaps. Was he not at this moment ready to hunt down the person who had gunned down one of his?

Athos bowed his head and considered his actions. Instead of here, should he not be back at the garrison – at d'Artagnan's side – to at least be a comfort to Constance? He lifted his gaze and his eyes were like steel. No – it was not in his nature to wait, while d'Artagnan's assailant ran free. There was nothing to give Constance but the satisfaction of finding the person who did this.

He left the line of dead and found Etienne making his final sweep of the fort.

"Have you found anyone alive?" he asked.

"None – though we believe some escaped to the woods toward the east."

Athos looked toward the tree line, and thought on this, "Back to Gerberoy?"

"So it seems." Etienne watched as Athos' jaw set in determination. "Are you thinking of going after them?"

"After one", Athos corrected.

"We will finish this grim task – and follow." Etienne looked to the sky. "Evening fast approaches. We will set out as soon as it is possible to join you there tomorrow."

Athos nodded his thanks, rejoined Porthos; and mounted his horse. As they rode away he announced to his friend, "We ride to Gerberoy."

* * *

Constance let out a breath, and took a moment to massage the knots from her neck and the burgeoning ache in her temples. Nearby – Aramis lay sprawled on a cot; his soft rhythmic snoring calming her nerves. He had fallen off to sleep, exhausted a few hours ago - Dr. Lemay already having left to see to the Royal Family.

Reluctant to leave her to care for d'Artagnan alone – he had camped out here with them – ensuring her he was a light sleeper. If she needed him – he would be there. She was not sure how he had stayed on his feet for as long as he had. He and Dr. Lemay had stood for hours over d'Artagnan – working to save his life while they still had sunlight to see.

Looking at d'Artagnan now, it was as if he only slept. Other than the fine sheen of sweat that covered him – he looked as if he would sit up any moment and take her in his arms.

She pulled the bucket of water closer, dipped in the cloth and began the routine she started hours before. She swiped the damp cloth over his brow – his neck – his chest and lastly his arms and legs; attempting to beat back the fever that wanted to consume him.

She felt him shiver slightly from the coolness; stroked his hair and kissed his forehead – feeling the heat on her lips.

Earlier, Aramis, Dr. Lemay and Treville, had sat with her after the procedure and explained that now the only thing left to do was to wait. Removal of the ball and bits of material from d'Artagnan's clothing in the wound had been a success. Now their task was to fight his infection – and bring down his fever. If they could do this – he would survive.

So, she would gather water – wipe down his body – force down liquid; for however long it took. She would not lose him – not now; not after all they had been through. She had prayed and promised God – that if He did not send the angel of death to their door, she would give up her notion of taking her happiness.

It had been hours since the procedure, and he had not yet regained consciousness. Dr. Lemay was not surprised. d'Artagnan had fought them hard while he had extracted the ball – with Treville and Aramis holding him down until he finally passed out. So she would wait him out. She would be here when he woke up.

Aramis had tried to get her to leave and change her dress; get a bite to eat; rest – but she was afraid to go. What if d'Artagnan woke up and she wasn't here? What if she went and he left her?

She sighed and stood to find the candles. Evening approached and it would not do for d'Artagnan to awaken in the dark. She lit them one by one and placed them about – giving the room a soft glow.

She sat down again at his side; wet the cloth and began again.

* * *

Sabine dragged herself along the road toward home. She had traveled through the night; knowing her way home like the back of her hand. Her legs and feet felt as if they were weighted down with stone. She could barely lift them; but she refused to give up.

If she could only get to Gerberoy – momma and poppa would have a bath ready, and a bowl of stew to fill her belly. She was so hot; sticky; and the dirt on her pink shrift had turned the costume brown. She peered down at her feet and could see the blood seeping through the thin slippers.

Yes – momma and poppa would greet her at the door and welcome her home. Sabine studied the sky – soon the sun would be up, and she would help momma set the table; and kiss poppa as he headed off to work the fields.

She would go and visit with Robert – take a long walk to the stream; and plan for the future.

Sabine smiled; and found in her a burst of energy and ran for home – their little house on the edge of the wood. When she reached the front door – she flung it open – her smile still open and happy. But when she stepped across the threshold, it was so quiet; still and hushed – dust swirled around her; tickling her nose. She tilted her head to listen. Where had her parents gone?

She shivered from the chill of the room, and hugged herself to gather some warmth, and called out, "Momma?" She ran to her parent's room, and swung open the door, "Poppa?"

She went back to the main part of their little house and turned around in a circle. Why did everything look so grey; and lifeless? She hunched her shoulders and covered her eyes. Where was her family?

"Sabine, why are you standing about?"

Sabine lifted her head; uncovered her eyes and stared incredulous at the petite woman in front of her. Suddenly a fire was in the hearth; the smell of stew permeated the room; and the sun peeked through the windows. "Momma", she sighed in relief.

Her mother reached out her hands; pulled her in close and led her to the room she grew up sleeping in, "My dear child, come – come lay down and rest." Sabine followed her mother to the pallet and laid her head on a straw pillow – her eyes wet with tears of joy.

"I'm so glad to see you momma", she cried, "Where is poppa?"

"He's gone ahead Sabine", she cooed; pushing her hair away from her forehead.

Sabine kissed her mother's hand, "I've done something so terrible. Will you forgive me?"

Sabine's mother kissed her eye lids; and smiled down, "Hush and rest daughter. When you wake, we will all be here."

"And Robert?" she asked hesitantly.

"He will be here soon I think. Just rest"

Sabine let her body relax; curled up in a ball; pressed her cheek against the rough straw and closed her eyes to wait.

* * *

d'Artagnan found himself walking toward a small little house at the edge of the wood. The chilled morning breeze brushed back his hair and skimmed across his cheeks. It was so quiet here – the sun just rising above the trees, casting a pink and orange glow – giving the world around him a feeling of tranquility. He felt light and well. He touched his side and there was no pain.

Where was Constance? All during the night, he had felt her presence – heard her whispers of love and sensed a cool dampness prickling at his skin causing him to tremble.

He had wanted to wake up and tell her not to give up on their happiness and to trust him – they had a right to dream. But now that he was awake she wasn't here.

He walked toward the little house and saw that the door was open – inviting him in.

When he stepped inside the warmth embraced him right away, giving him a sense of peace. The smell of freshly baked bread and stew had his stomach growling.

There by the hearth, filling bowls of food from a steaming pot; was a petite brown haired woman, gesturing for him to come in further. "You are welcome", she called out to him – smiling and placing the bowl on the table.

An older man sat with a pipe between his teeth, pulling a chair out for him to sit; and there at the head, sat someone he thought he knew – someone he should know, but could not place.

He frowned, concentrating hard. The man smiled at him, stood from his seat, and walked toward a room to the side. He opened the door, and lying on a pallet was a slight girl with long brown hair. She was dressed like a fairy, all in pink. He watched as she pushed herself to her elbows – reached out her hand and called out to the man at the door, "Robert."

Suddenly, Athos came crashing in – pointing his musket; finger on the trigger – ready to shoot; and he yelled out, "Athos no!", and sat straight up, breathing hard, his heart pounding – his side aching and pulsing in time with his fast moving heart.

When he looked around, there was no house – no hearth – no stew. He was in the infirmary and Constance was there holding the sides of his face – begging him to slow his breathing down and calling for Aramis to help her.

His mind felt foggy; and his chest constricted – he grabbed for Constance's wrists and tried to follow what she was saying.

"Take deep breaths with me – yes?" she urged- nodding furiously – stroking his cheeks.

"In…" she coached, and he took in a breath.

"Out…" she exhaled, and he breathed out shakily.

This continued until they were breathing together as one.

To the side he could see Aramis watching them close with a wide grin on his face, "Hello", he called out, relief evident in his voice. "We are so glad to have you with us." He leaned his head on d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezed his arm firmly. When he pulled away he laughed with trepidation; and covered his mouth – a tear escaping down his cheek.

Constance kissed his temple and held him tight – feeling the coolness of his skin. "Your fever has broken" and she broke down in his arms.

d'Artagnan held his arms around her, and when he could hold her up no longer – she and Aramis laid him gently back to the cot to lay down – Constance now at his side with her arms about his waist; asleep instantly, her warm breath tickling his arm. He kissed her hair – and before drifting away with her, asked Aramis, "Where is Athos?"

"On his way" he assured – as he placed a blanket over their sleeping forms.

* * *

The ride to Gerberoy went into the evening and through the night. The sun rose, and a pinkish orange hue covered the sky. Athos had refused to stop along the way – pushing them forward, determined to find the person responsible for shooting d'Artagnan.

Porthos understood the depth of their connection and knew that although Athos loved him and Aramis, with d'Artagnan it was different. Where their bond with him had taken time and nurturing; with d'Artagnan it had been almost instantaneous. It was as if they had always known each other.

When they reached the outskirts of the town, Athos seemed to know where they were going; and he did not question it. He led them down the main street, where they saw several people – men and women – dressed in pink and black robes, scurrying to hide in abandoned homes – like frightened mice.

"Should we stop and detain these people?" he asked Athos – who did not answer – only continued to lead his mount down the dusty road; toward a small house at the edge of town near the woods.

They stopped before the house and dismounted. Athos removed his musket from his sash, Porthos following suit – and they moved toward the open front door. Before Porthos could ask what the plan was, Athos burst through; and pushed the door wide. He strode through the room – stalked to a door off to the side; and had his finger on the trigger ready to fire – knowing the person responsible for hurting d'Artagnan was there behind that door.

When he pushed the door open, he heard d'Artagnan scream, "Athos, no!"

He instinctively lowered his weapon and scanned the room. How was this possible? "d'Artagnan?" he called.

And then he heard a small voice exclaim, "Robert."

Porthos strode past him into the room and there on a pallet lay a slight girl of twenty, with long brown hair; dressed in pink – her feet bloody inside pink slippers. He touched her face to feel for breath and there was none.

He turned to Athos, who stared back at him – eyes wide; and his brow creased with consternation. "She is gone" Porthos said to him.

Athos slowly turned from the room, and moved to the main area of the house; sat heavily in a chair and dropped his musket forcefully on the table.

He scanned the room apprehensively; covered his face and groaned aloud – taking in the gravity of what he had almost done. Porthos joined him, laid his hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. Athos looked up at his friend and grabbed his hand with a fierce grip.

"When you love Athos – you love completely and sometimes beyond reason", Porthos surmised with a slight weary smile.

Athos sighed shakily, his only response a nod and a final pat to the hand at his shoulder – certain that his friend spoke true; but unsure how to rectify it or if he should.

When they left the house, there was Etienne and his regiment riding toward them – with the fugitives rounded up between them.

"There is another here" Porthos informed Etienne, "but we leave this to you. We are heading home to see how our brother fares."

Etienne nodded his understanding and watched as two of the inseparables rode away back to Paris.

* * *

When next d'Artagnan opened his eyes – the sun was shining bright through the infirmary windows – casting a sort of halo about the room. He squeezed his eyes shut from the glare and groaned – his side was on fire.

When he blinked them open again, more slowly, Athos was seated on the cot beside him – his hip at his hip, holding out a cup for him to drink from. He looked around the room to gain support for not needing the pain draught, but Aramis and Porthos were asleep on cots of their own. Constance – from across the room – smiled cheekily at him; deftly turned her back and announced that she would go and bring something to eat; her step full of energy as she pulled the door behind her.

d'Artagnan frowned and pulled himself to his elbows and knowing he would not dissuade his friend, forced the foul tasting concoction down as Athos held the cup to his lips. When it was all gone – he gagged for good measure and swiped the remnants of it from his mouth.

"Don't complain – it is for your own good", Athos admonished.

He placed the cup on the side table and held d'Artagnan by his shoulders as he gently helped to lower him back down to the cot - d'Artagnan never taking his eyes from his friend's face – reading what little emotion there he would share.

Athos took a breath, "I'm sorry I left. I should have stayed and not gone to find her."

d'Artagnan grabbed the front of his shirt and held on – pulling Athos toward him – his eyes warm with understanding. He knew now, it was Athos' way to protect those he loved – no matter what.

"Once again you have saved me from myself" he said with sincere affection.

d'Artagnan cleared his throat and answered, "As you I."

The End

* * *

Well, this is the conclusion to Conclusions! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you have enjoyed these different conclusions to some of the episodes in season two. Please let me know what you think. Your reviews mean a lot. I like knowing what you think, and your comments give me confidence. As always, thank you to everyone who has already reviewed, favorited and followed this story. To those who guest review – I sincerely thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts.


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